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COMPANIONS OF MY 
SOLITUDE. 



PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY 
EDINBURGH AND LONDON 



7%%^ 




COMPANIONS 



OF MY 



SOLITUDE. 



/ 









BY THE AUTHOR 0E- "FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 



THE EIGHTH EDITION. 



LONDON: 
SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE. 

1874. 






\* 



lr!fcfti*$» 



COMPAN 



OF MY 



SOLITUDE. 



CHAPTER I. 

WHEN in the country, I live much alone : and, 
as I wander over downs and commons and 
through lanes with lofty hedges, many thoughts come 
into my mind. I find, too, that the same ones come 
again and again, and are spiritual companions. At 
times they insist upon being with me, and are 
resolutely intrusive. I think I will describe them, 
that so I may have more mastery over them. 
Instead of suffering them to haunt me as vague faces 
and half-fashioned resemblances, I will make them 
into distinct pictures, which I can give away, or hang 
up in my room, turning them, if I please, with their 
faces to the w r all ; and, in short, be free to do what I 
like w r ith them. 

A 



[ 2 ] 

Ellesmere will then be able to deride them at his 
pleasure ; and so they will go through the alembic of 
sarcasm : Dunsford will have something more to 
approve, or rebuke ; Lucy something more to love, 
or to hate. Even my dogs and my trees will be the 
better for this work, as, when it is done, they will, 
perhaps, have a more disengaged attention from me. 
Faithful, steadfast creatures, both dogs and trees; how 
easy and charming is your converse with me compared 
with the eager, exclusive, anxious way in which the 
creations of my own brain, who at least should have 
some filial love and respect for me, insist upon my 
attention. 

It was a thoroughly English day to-day, sombre and 
quiet, the sky coming close to the earth, and every- 
thing seeming to be of one colour. I wandered over 
the downs, not heeding much which way I went, and 
driven by one set of thoughts which of late have had 
great hold upon me. 

I think often of the hopes of the race here, of what 
is to become of our western civilisation, and what can 
be made of it. Others may pursue science or art, and 
I long to do so too; but I cannot help thinking of the 
state and fortunes of large masses of mankind, and 
hoping that thought may do something for them. 



[ 3 ] 

After all my cogitations, my mind generally returns to 
one thing, the education of the people. For want of 
general cultivation how greatly individual excellence 
is crippled. Of what avail, for example, is it for any 
one of us to have surmounted any social terror, or any 
superstition, while his neighbours lie sunk in it? His 
conduct in reference to them becomes a constant care 
and burden. 

Meditating upon general improvement, I often think 
a great deal about the climate in these parts of the 
world ; and I see that without much husbandry of our 
means and resources, it is difficult for us to be 
anything but low barbarians. The difficulty of living 
at all in a cold, damp, destructive climate is great. 
Socrates went about with very scanty clothing, and 
men praise his wisdom in caring so little for the goods 
of this life. He ate sparingly, and of mean food. 
That is not the way, I suspect, that we can make a 
philosopher here. There are people who would deride 
one for saying this, and would contend that it gives 
too much weight to worldly things. But I suspect 
they are misled by notions borrowed from Eastern 
climates. Here we must make prudence one of the 
substantial virtues. 

One thing, though, I see, and that is, that there is 
a quantity of misplaced labour, of labour which is not 



[ 4 ] 

consumed in stern contest with the rugged world 
around us, in the endeavour to compel Nature to give 
us our birthright, but in fighting with " strong delu- 
sions " of all kinds ; or rather in putting up obstacles 
which we laboriously knock down again, in making 
Chinese mazes between us and objects we have daily 
need of, and where we should have only the shortest 
possible line to go. As I have said elsewhere, half 
the labour of the world is pure loss — the work of 
Sisyphus rolling up stones to come down again in- 
evitably. 

Law, for example, what a loss is there ; of time, of 
heart, of love, of leisure ! There are good men whose 
minds are set upon improving the law ; but I doubt 
whether any of them are prepared to go far enough. 
Here, again, we must hope most from general im- 
provement of the people. Perhaps, though, some 
one great genius will do something for us. I have 
often fancied that a man might play the part of 
Brutus in the law. He might simulate madness in 
order to ensure freedom. He might make himself a 
great lawyer, rise to eminence in the profession, and 
then turn round and say, "I am not going to enjoy 
this high seat and dignity ; but intend henceforward 
to be an advocate for the people of this country 
against the myriad oppressions and vexations of the 



[ S ] 

law. No Chancellorships or Chief- Justiceships for 
me. I have only pretended to be this slave in order 
that you should not say that I am an untried and 
unpractical man — that I do not understand your 
mysteries." 

This, of course, is not the dramatic way in which 
such a thing would be done. But there is greatness 
enough in the world for it to be done. If no lawyer 
rises up to fill the place which my imagination has 
assigned for him, we must hope that statesmen will do 
something for us in this matter, that they will even- 
tually protect us (though, hitherto, they never have 
done so) from lawyers. 

There are many things done now in the law at great 
expense by private individuals which ought to be 
done for all by officers of the State. It is as if each 
individual had to make a road for himself whenever 
he went out, instead of using the king's highway. 

Many of the worst things in the profession take 
place low down in it. I am not sure that I would 
not try the plan of having public notaries with very 
extensive functions, subjecting them to official control. 
What exclamations about freedom we should hear, I 
daresay, if any large measure of this kind were pro- 
posed; which exclamations and their consequences 
have long been, in my mind, a chief obstacle to our 



[ 6 ] 

possessing the reality of freedom. What difference is 
it whether I am a slave to my lawyer, or subject 
indirectly to more official control in the changing of 
my property ? I do not know a meaner and sadder 
portion of a man's existence, or one more likely to be 
full of impatient sorrow, than that which he spends in 
waiting at the offices of lawyers. 

It is to be observed that all satire falls short when 
aimed against the practices in the law. No man can 
imagine, not Swift himself, things more shameful, 
absurd, and grotesque than the things which do take 
place daily in the law. Satire becomes merely nar- 
rative. A modern novelist depicts a man ruined by 
a legacy of a thousand pounds, and sleeping under a 
four-legged table, because it reminded him of the days 
when he used to sleep in a four-post bed. This last 
touch about the bed is humorous, but the substance 
of the story is dry narrative only. 

These evils are not of yesterday, or of this country 
only; I observe that the first Spanish colonists in 
America write home to the Government begging them 
not to allow lawyers to come to the colony. 

At the same time, we must not forget how many 
of the evils attributed solely to the proceedings of 
lawyers result from the want of knowledge of business 
in the world in general, and its inaptness for business, 



[ 7 ] 

the anxiety to arrange more and for longer time than 
is wise or possible, and the occasional trusting of 
affairs to women, who in our country are brought up 
to be utterly incompetent to the management of 
affairs. Still, with all these allowances, and taking 
care to admit, as we must, if we have any fairness, 
that notwithstanding the element of chicanery and 
perverse small-mindedness in which they are involved, 
there are many admirable and very high-minded men 
to be found in all grades of the law (perhaps a more 
curious instance of the power of the human being to 
maintain its structure unimpaired in the midst of a 
hostile element, than that a man should be able to 
abide in a heated oven) — admitting all these extenuat- 
ing circumstances, we must nevertheless declare, as I 
set out by saying, that law affords a notable example 
of loss of time, of heart, of love, of leisure.* 

Well, then, as another instance of misplaced labour, 
I suppose we must take a good deal of what goes on 
in schools and colleges, and, indeed, in parliaments 



* Many of the adjuncts and circumstances of the law are 
calculated to maintain it as a mystery : I allude to the uncouth 
form and size of deeds, the antiquated words, the unusual kind 
of handwriting. Physicians' prescriptions may have a better 
effect for being expressed mysteriously, but legal matters cannot 
surely be made too clear, even in the merest minutiae. 



[ 8 ] 

and other assemblages of men, not to speak of the 
wider waste of means and labour which prevails in all 
physical works — such as buildings, furniture, decora- 
tions ; and not merely waste but obstruction, so that 
if there were a good angel attendant on the human 
race, with power to act on earth, it would destroy as 
fast as made a considerable portion of men's produc- 
tions^ as the kindest thing which could be done for 
man and the best instruction for him. 

The truth is, we must considerably address our- 
selves to cope with Nature. Here again, too, we 
come to the want of more extended and general 
cultivation, for otherwise we cannot fully enjoy or 
profit by scientific discovery. At present a man in a 
civilised country is surrounded by things which are 
greater than he is; he does not understand them, 
cannot regulate them, cannot mend them. 

This ignorance proceeds in some respects from 
division of labour. A man knows how to make a 
pin's head admirably, but is afraid to handle or give 
an opinion upon things which he has not daily know- 
ledge of. This applies not only to physical things, 
but to law, church, state, and the arts and sciences 
generally. 

After all, the advancement of the world depends 
upon the use of small balances of advantage over 



[ 9 ] 

disadvantage; for there is compensation everywhere 
and in everything. No one discovery resuscitates the 
world i certainly no physical one. Each new good 
thought, or word, or deed, brings its shadow with it ; 
and as I have just said, it is upon the small balances 
of gain that we get on at all. Often, too, this occurs 
indirectly, as when moral gains give physical gains, 
and these again give room for further moral and intel- 
lectual culture. 

Frequently it seems as if the faculties of man were 
not quite adequate as yet to his situation. This is 
perhaps more to be seen in contemplating individuals 
than in looking at mankind in general. The individual 
seems the sport of circumstance. When Napoleon 
invaded Russia (the proximate cause of his downfall), 
though doubtless there were very adverse and unfor- 
tunate circumstances attendant upon that invasion, 
yet, upon the whole, it gave a good opportunity for 
working out the errors of the man's mind and system. 
The circumstances were not unfair, as we may say, 
against him. Most prosperous men, perhaps I should 
say most men, have in the course of their lives their 
campaign in Russia — when they strain their fortune 
to the uttermost, and often it breaks under them. I 
did not mean anything like this when I said that the 
individual seems the sport of circumstance. Neither 



[ "> ] 

did I mean that small continuous faults and misdoings 
have considerable effect upon a man, such as the 
errors and vices of youth, which are silently put down 
to a man from day to day, like his reckoning at an 
inn. But I alluded to those very unfortunate con- 
currences of circumstances, which most men's lives 
will tell them of, where a man, from some small error 
or omission, from some light carelessness, or over- 
trust, in thoughtless innocence or inexperience, gets 
entangled in a web of adverse circumstances, which 
will be company for him on sleepless nights and 
anxious days throughout a large part of his life. 
Were success in life (morally or physically) the main 
object here, it certainly would seem as if a little more 
faculty in man were sadly needed. A similar thing 
occurs often to the body, when a man, from some 
small mischance or oversight, lays the beginning of a 
disease which shall depress and enfeeble him while 
he sojourns upon earth. And it seems, when he looks 
back, as if such a little thing would have saved him ; 
if he had not crossed over the road, if he had not 
gone to see his friend on that particular day, if the 
dust had not been so unpleasant on that occasion, 
the whole course of his life would have been different. 
Living, as we do, in the midst of stern gigantic laws, 
which crush everything down that comes in their way, 



[ " ] 

which know no excuses, admit of no small errors, 
never send a man back to learn his lesson and try 
him again, but are as inexorable as Fate — living, I 
say, with such powers above us (unseen, too, for the 
most part), it does seem as if the faculties of man 
were hardly as yet adequate to his situation here. 

Such considerations as the above tend to charity 
and humility; and they point also to the existence of 
a future state. 

As regards charity, for example, a man might 
extend to others the ineffable tenderness which he 
has for some of his own sins and errors, because he 
knows the whole history of them ; and though, taken 
at a particular point, they appear very large and very 
black, he knew them in their early days when they 
were play-fellows instead of tyrant demons. There 
are others which he cannot so well smooth over, 
because he knows that in their case inward proclivity 
coincided with outward temptation ; and, if he is a 
just man, he is well aware that if he had not erred 
here he would have erred there \ that experience, 
even at famine price, was necessary for him in those 
matters. But, in considering the misdoings and mis- 
fortunes of others, he may as well begin, at least, by 
thinking that they are of the class which he has found 



[ » ] 

from his own experience to contain a larger amount 
of what we call ill-fortune than of anything like evil 
disposition. For time and chance, says the Preacher, 
happen to all men. 

Thus I thought in my walk this dull and dreary 
afternoon, till the rising of the moon and the return 
from school of the children with their satchels coming 
over the down warned me, too, that it was time to 
return home : and so, trying not to think any more 
of these things, I looked at the bare beech-trees, still 
beautiful, and the dull sheep-ponds scattered here and 
there, and thought that the country even in winter 
and in these northern regions, like a great man in 
adversity and just disgrace, was still to be looked at 
with hopeful tenderness, even if, in the man's case, 
there must also be somewhat of respectful condemna- 
tion. As I neared home I comforted myself, too, by 
thinking that the inhabitants of sunnier climes do not 
know how winning and joyful is the look of the 
chimney-tops of our homes in the midst of what to 
them would seem most desolate and dreary. 



CHAPTER II. 

I SUPPOSE it has happened to most men who 
observe their thoughts at all, to notice how some 
expression returns again and again in the course of 
their meditations, or, indeed, of their business, form- 
ing as it were a refrain to all they think, or do, for 
any given day. Sometimes, too, this refrain has no 
particular concern with the thought or business of 
the day ; but seems as if it belonged to some under- 
current of thought and feeling. This at least is 
what I experienced to-day myself, being haunted by 
a bit of old Spanish poetry, which obtruded itself, 
sometimes inopportunely, sometimes not so, in the 
midst of all my work or play. The words were 
these : — 

1 ' Quan presto se va el placer. 
Como despues de acordado 

Da dolor ; 
Como, al nuestro parecer, 
Qualquiera tiempo pasado 

Fue mejor." 



[ *4 ] 

How quickly passes pleasure away. 
How after being granted 

It gives pain ; 
How in our opinion 
Any past time 

Was better (than that we passed in pleasure). 

It was not that I agreed with the sentiment, except 
as applied to vicious pleasure, being rather of Sydney 
Smith's mind, that the remembrance of past pleasure 
is present pleasure ; but I suppose the words chimed 
in with reflections on the past which formed the under- 
current of my thoughts, as I went through the wood 
of beeches which bounded my walk to-day. 

A critique had just been sent me of some literary 
production, in which the reviewer was very gracious 
in noticing the calmness and moderation of the author. 
" Ah, my friend," thought I to myself, " how differently 
you would write if you did but know the man as I do, 
and were aware what a fierce fellow he is with all his 
outward smoothness, hardly ruling at times thoughts 
which are anything but calm and moderate, yet 
struggling to be just, and knowing that violence is 
always lost ! " 

From that I went on to consider how intense is the 
loneliness for the most part of any man who endeavours 
to think — like the Nile wandering on through a desert 
country, with no tributary streams to cheer and aid it, 



[ *5 ] 

and to be lost in sympathy with its main current. In 
politics, for example, such a man will have too affec- 
tionate a regard for the people to be a democrat ; he 
would as soon leave his own children without guidance ; 
and, on the other hand, he will have too great a regard 
for merit and fitness to be an aristocrat. He will find 
no one plank to walk up and down consistently ; and 
will be always looking beyond measures which satisfy 
other men • and seeing perhaps that as regards politics 
themselves, greater things are to be done out of them 
than in them. 

I was silent in thought for a moment, and then my 
refrain came back again — 

" Qualquiera tiempo pasado 
Fue mejor." 

And in a moment I went back, not to the pleasures, 
but to the ambitious hopes and projects of youth. 
And when a man does reflect upon the ambitions 
which are as characteristic of that period of life as 
reckless courage or elastic step, and finds that at each 
stage of his journey since, some hope has dropped off 
as too burdensome, or too romantic, till at last it is 
enough for him only to carry himself at all upright in 
this troublesome world — what thoughts come back 
upon him ! How he meditates upon his own errors 



[ i6 ] 

and shortcomings, and sees that he has had not only< 
the hardness, oiliness, and imperturbability of the 
world to contend with, but that he himself has gene- 
rally been his worst antagonist. 

In this mood, I might have thrown myself upon 
the mound under a green beech-tree that was near, 
the king of the woods, and uttered many lamenta- 
tions ; but instead of doing anything of the kind, I 
walked sedately by it; for as we go on in life, we 
find we cannot afford excitement, and we learn to be 
parsimonious in our emotions. Again I muttered, 

" Qualquiera tiempo pasado 
Fue mejor." 

And I threw forward these words into the future, as if 
I were already blaming any tendency to unnecessary 
emotion. 

I entered now into another vein of thought, con- 
sidering that kind Nature would not allow a man to 
be so very wise, nor, for the sake of any good he might 
do to others, permit him to forfeit the benefit he must 
derive from his own errors, failures, and shortcomings. 
You may mean well, she says, and you might expect 
that I should give you any extraordinary furtherance, 
and not suffer you to be plagued with drawbacks 
and errors of your own, that so you might do your 



[ *7 ] 

work undisturbed : but I love you too well for that 
I sacrifice no one child for the benefit of the rest. 
You all must learn humility. 

I felt the truth of these words, and thereupon gave 
myself up to more cheerful thoughts. How much 
cheerfulness there is, by the way, in humility. I 
listened to the cuckoo in the woods, hearing his 
tiresome but welcome noise for the first time in the 
year, and I looked out for the wild-flowers that were 
just beginning to show themselves, and thought that, 
from the names of flowers, it is evident that, in former 
days, poets and scholars must have lived in the country 
and looked well at Nature. Else how came all these 
picturesque and poetical names, " Love in idleness," 
" Venus's looking-glass/' and such like ? 

But as the shades of evening came on in the wood, 
my thoughts went away from these simple topics ; the 
refrain, too, 

" Quan presto se va el placer," 

sounded in my ears again ; and I passed on to medi- 
tations of like colour to those in the former part of 
my walk. In addition to the other hindrances I 
alluded to before, this also must come home to the 
mind of many a man of the present generation — how 
he is to discern, much more to teach, even in small 



[ i8 ] 

things, without having clear views, or distinct con- 
victions, upon some of the greatest matters — upon 
religious questions for instance ? And yet I suppose 
it must be tried. Even a man of Goethe's immense 
industry and great intellectual resources, feared to 
throw himself upon the sea of biblical criticism. But, 
at the same time, how poor, timid, and tentative must 
be all discourse built upon inferior motives. Ah, if 
we could but discern what is the right way and the 
highest way ! 

These doubts which beset men upon many of the 
greatest matters, are the direct result of the lies and 
falsification of our predecessors. Sometimes when 
we look at the frightful errors which metaphorical 
expressions may have introduced, I do not wonder 
that Plato spoke in the hardest manner of Poets. 
But man cannot narrate without metaphors, so much 
more does he see in every transaction than the bare 
circumstances. 

When I was at Milan and saw the glory of that 
town, the Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, I could 
not help thinking, as my way is, many things not, 
perhaps, very closely connected with that grand work, 
but which it suggested to my mind. At first you may 
be disappointed in finding the figures so much faded, 
but soon, with patient looking, much comes into 



[ *9 ] 

view; and after marvelling at the inexpressible beauty 
which still remains, you find to your astonishment 
that no picture, no print, perhaps no description, has 
adequately represented what you can still trace in this 
work. Not only has it not been represented, but it 
has been utterly misrepresented. The copyist thought 
he could tell the story better than the painter, and 
where the outlines are dim, was not content to leave 
them so, but must insert something of his own which 
is clearly wrong. This, I thought, is the way of most 
translation, and I might add, of most portrait-painting 
and nearly all criticism. And it occurred to me that 
the written history of the world w T as very like the 
prints of this fresco — namely, a clear account, a good 
deal of it utterly wrong, of what at first hand is con- 
siderably obliterated, and which, except in minds of 
the highest powers of imagination, to be a clear 
conception can hardly be a just one. 

And then, carrying my application still further to 
the most important of all histories, I thought how the 
simple majesty of the original transaction had pro- 
bably suffered a like misconception, from the fading 
of the material narrative, and still more from the 
weak inventions of those who could not represent 
accurately, and were impatient of any dimness (to 
their eyes) in the divine original. 



[ 20 ] 

I often fancy how I should like to direct the intel- 
lectual efforts of men ; and if I had the power, how 

frequently I should direct them to those great subjects 
in metaphysics and theology which now men shun. 

What patient labour and what intellectual power 
are often bestowed in coming to a decision on any 
cause which involves much worldly property. Might 
there not be some great hearing of any of the intel- 
lectual and spiritual difficulties which beset the paths 
of all thoughtful men in the present age? 

Church questions, for example, seem to require a 
vast investigation. As it is, a book or pamphlet is 
put forward on one side, then another on the other 
side, and somehow the opposing facts and arguments 
seldom come into each other's presence. And thus 
truth sustains great loss. 

My own opinion is, if I can venture to say that I 
have an opinion, that what we ought to seek for is a 
church of the utmost width of doctrine, and with the 
most beautiful expression that can be devised for that 
doctrine — the most beautiful expression, I mean, in 
w r ords, in deeds, in sculpture, and in sacred song; 
which should have a simple easy grandeur in its 
proceedings that should please the elevated and 
poetical mind, charm the poor, and yet not lie open 
to just cavilling on the part of those somewhat hard, 



[ 21 ] 

intellectual worshippers who must have a reason for 
everything \ which should have vitality and growth in 
it ; and which should attract and not repel those who 
love truth better than any creature. 

Pondering these things in the silence of the downs, 
I at last neared home ; and found that the result of 
all my thoughts was that any would-be teacher must 
be contented and humble, or try to be so, in his 
efforts of any kind \ and that if the great questions 
can hardly be determined by man (divided, too, as he 
is from his brother in all ways) he must still try and 
do what he can on lower levels, hoping ever for more 
insight, and looking forward to the knowledge which 
may be gained by death. 



CHAPTER III. 

TO-DAY, as the weather was cold and boisterous, 
I could only walk under shelter of the yew 
hedge in my garden, which some gracious predecessor 
(all honour to him !) planted to keep off the dire 
north-west winds, and which, I fear, unless he was 
a very hardy plant himself, he did not live long 
enough to profit much by. Being so near home, my 
thoughts naturally took a domestic turn ; and I vexed 
myself by thinking that I had received no letter from 
my little boy. This was owing to the new post-office 
regulations, which did not allow letters to go out from 
country places, or be delivered at such places, on a 
Sunday. Oh those Borgias, said I to myself, how 
much we have to blame them for! To be sure, I 
know pretty well what the letter would be. 

" I hope you are well papa and I send you my love 
and I have got a kite and Uncle George's dog is very 
fierce. His name is Nero which was a Roman 
emperor nearly quite white only he has got two black 



[ 2 3 ] 

spots just over his nose And I send my love to 
mamma and the children and I am your own little 
boy and affectionate son, 

" Leonard Milverton." 

Not a very important, certainly not a very artistic, 
production this letter, but still it has its interest for 
the foolish paternal mind, and I should like to have 
received it to-day. It is greatly owing to those 
Borgias that I have not received this letter. Most 
of my neighbours imagine that their little petitions 
were the cause of these post-office regulations ; but I 
beg to go somewhat further back, and I come to Pope 
Alexander the Sixth, and lay a great deal of blame on 
him. The pendulous folly of mankind oscillates as 
far in this direction as it has come from that ; and an 
absurd Puritan is only a correlative to a wicked Pope. 

From such reflections, I fell to considering Puri- 
tanism generally, and I am afraid I came to a different 
conclusion from that which would have been popular 
at any of the late public meetings \ but then I console 
myself by an aphorism of Ellesmere's, who is wont to 
remark, "How exactly proportioned to a man's ignor- 
ance of the subject is the noise he makes about it at 
a public meeting." Knowledge brings doubts and 
exceptions and limitations which, though occasionally 



[ 24 ] 

some aids to truth, are all hindrances to vigorous 
statement. 

But to go back to what I thought about Puritanism 
— for I endeavoured to methodise my thoughts, and 
the following is the course they took. 

What are the objects of life, as far as regards this 
world? Its first wants, I answer, namely, food and 
raiment. What besides ? Marrying and the rearing 
of children ; and, in general, the cultivation of the 
affections. So far Puritans would agree with us. 

But suppose all these things to be tempered with 
gaiety and festivity : what element of wickedness has 
necessarily entered ? None that I can perceive. Self- 
indulgence takes many forms • and we should bear in 
mind that there may be a sullen sensuality as well as 
a gay one. 

But the truth is, there is a secret belief amongst 
some men that God is displeased with man's happi- 
ness ; and in consequence they slink about creation, 
ashamed and afraid to enjoy anything. 

They answer, we do not object to rational pleasures. 

But who, my good people, shall exactly define 
rational pleasures ? You are pleased with a flower ; 
to cultivate flowers is what you call a rational plea- 
sure : there are people, however, to whom a flower is 
somewhat insipid, but they perhaps dote upon music, 



[ *5 ] 

which, however, is unfortunately not one of your 
rational pleasures — chiefly, as I believe, because it is 
mainly a social one. Why is there anything necessarily 
wrong in social pleasures? Certainly some of the 
most dangerous vices, such as pride, are found to 
flourish in solitude with more vigour than in society ; 
and a man may be deadly avaricious who has never 
even gone out to a tea-party. 

Once I happened to overhear a dialogue somewhat 
similar to that which Charles Lamb, perhaps, only 
feigned to hear. I was travelling in a railway-carriage 
with a most precise-looking formal person, the Arch- 
Quaker, if there be such a person. His countenance 
was very noble, or had been so, before it was frozen 
up. He said nothing : I felt a great respect for him. 
At last his mouth opened. I listened with attention : 
I had hitherto lived with foolish, gad-about, dinner- 
eating, dancing people : now I was going to hear the 
words of retired wisdom ■ when he thus addressed his 
young daughter sitting opposite, " Hast thee heard 
how Southamptons went lately?" (in those days 
South-Western Railway shares were called Southamp- 
tons) • and she replied with like gravity, giving him 
some information that she had picked up about 
Southamptons yesterday evening. 

I leant back rather sickened as I thought what 



[ 36 ] 

was probably the daily talk and the daily thoughts in 
that family, from which I conjectured all amusement 
was banished save that connected with intense money- 
getting. 

Well, but, exclaims the advocate of Puritanism, I do 
not admit that my clients, on abjuring the pleasures 
of this world, fall into pride, or sullen sensuality, or 
intense money-getting. They only secure to them- 
selves more time for works of charity and for the love 
of God. 

You are an adroit advocate, and are careful, by not 
pushing your case too far, to give me the least possible 
room for reply. They secure to themselves more time 
for these good works you say. Do they do them? 
But the truth is, in order to meet your remark and to 
extract the good there is in it, I must begin by saying 
that Puritanism, as far as it is an abnegation of self, 
is good, or may be so. But this is most surely the 
case, when it turns its sufferings and privations to 
utility. It has always appeared to me that there is 
so much to be done in this world, that all self-inflicted 
suffering which cannot be turned to good account for 
others, is a loss — a loss, if you may so express it, to 
the spiritual world. 

The Puritanism which I object to is that which 



[ *7 ] 

avoids some pleasure, and exhausts in injurious com- 
ment and attack upon other people any leisure and 
force of mind which it may have gained by its absti- 
nence from the pleasure. 

I can understand and sympathise with the man who 
says, " I enjoy festivity, but I cannot go to the feast 
I am bidden to, to-night, for there are sick people 
who must be first attended to." But I do not love 
the man w T ho stays away from the feast and employs ' 
his leisure in delivering a sour discourse on the 
wickedness of the others who are invited to the 
feast, and who go to it. 

Moreover, this censoriousness is not only a sin, but 
the inventor of many sins. Indeed the manufacture 
of sins is so easy a manufacture, that I am convinced 
man could readily be persuaded that it was wicked to 
use the left leg as much as the right ; whole congrega- 
tions would only permit themselves to hop; and, what 
is more to our present point, would consider that 
when they walked in the ordinary fashion they were 
committing a deadly sin. Now, I should not think 
that the man who were to invent this sin would be a 
benefactor to the human race. 

You often hear in a town or village, a bit of 
domestic history, which seems at first to militate 
against what I have been saying, but is in reality very 



[ 28 ] 

consistent with it. The story is of some poor man, 
and is apt to run thus : — He began to frequent the 
alehouse ; he sought out amusements ; there was a 
neighbouring fair where he first showed his quarrel- 
some disposition ; then came worse things ; and now 
here he is in prison. Yes, I should reply, he fre- 
quented, with a stealthy shame, those places which 
you, who would ignore all amusement, have suffered 
to be most coarse and demoralising. All along he 
had an exaggerated notion of the blame that he was 
justly liable to from his first steps in the downward 
path : the truth unfortunately is, that you go a long 
way to make a small error into a sin, when you mis- 
call it so. I would not, therefore, have a clergyman 
talk of the alehouse as if it were the pit of Acheron. 
On the contrary, I would have him acknowledge that, 
considering the warmth and cheerfulness to be found 
in the sanded parlour of the village inn, it is very 
natural that men should be apt to frequent it. I 
would have him, however, go on to show what fre- 
quenting the alehouse mostly leads to, and how the 
labourer's home might be made to rival the alehouse; 
and I would have him help to make it so, or, in some 
way, to provide some substitute for the alehouse. 

The evils of competition are very considerable, and 
many people in these times hold up competition as 



[ *9 ] 

the great monster evil of the age. I do not know 
how that may be ; but I am sure that the competition 
there is in the way of puritanical demonstration is 
very injurious to sincerity. This competition is the 
child of fear. A is afraid that his neighbour B will 
not think well of him, because he (A) does or permits 
something which C, another neighbour, will not allow 
in his house. Surely this is little else than mere man- 
worship. It puts one in mind of the story of that 
congregation of the Church of England, who begged 
their clergyman to give them longer sermons — not 
that they were fond of long discourses — but that they 
might not always be out of church before some neigh- 
bouring congregation of Wesleyans or Independents. 

Returning to the imaginary advocate for Puritanism 
who said that it secured more time for works of 
charity and for the love of God. 

I do not know whether other people's observation 
will tally with mine ; but, as far as I have observed, 
it appears to me that charity requires the sternest 
labour and the most anxious thought ; that, in short, 
it is one of the most difficult things in the world, and 
is not altogether a matter for leisure hours. This re- 
mark applies to the more serious functions of charity. 
But, we must remember, that the whole of charity is 
not comprised in carrying about gifts to one another, 



[ 3° ] 

or, to speak more generally, in remedying the material 
evils suffered by those around us, else life would 
indeed be a dreary affair; but there are exquisite 
little charities to be performed in reference to social 
pleasures. 

Then, as to the love of God, I do not venture to 
say much upon so solemn a theme ; but it does occur 
to me that we should talk and think very humbly 
about our capacity in matters so much above us. At 
any rate, I do not see why the love of God should 
withdraw us largely from our fellow-man. That love 
we believe was greatest in Him who graced with His 
presence the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee ; who 
was never known to shun or ignore the existence of 
the vicious ; and to whom, more than to all other 
teachers, the hypocrite seems to have been particu- 
larly odious. 

But there is another very important consideration 
to be weighed by those who are fearful of encouraging 
amusements, especially amongst their poorer brethren. 
What are the generality of people to do, or to think 
of, for a considerable portion of each day, if they are 
not allowed to busy themselves with some form of 
recreation? Here is this infinite creature, man, who 
looks before and after, whose swiftness of thought is 



[ 3i ] 

such, even among the dullest of the species, as would 
perhaps astonish the brightest, who are apt to imagine 
that none think but themselves ; and you fancy that 
he can be quite contented with providing warmth and 
food for himself and those he has to love and cherish. 
Food and warmth ! Content with that ! Not he : 
and we should greatly despise him if he could be. 
Why is it that in all ages small towns and remote 
villages have fostered little malignities of all kinds ? 
The true answer is, that people will backbite one 
another to any extent rather than not be amused. 
Nay, so strong is this desire for something to go on 
that may break the monotony of life, that people, not 
otherwise ill-natured, are pleased with the misfortune 
of their neighbours, solely because it gives something 
to think of, something to talk about. They imagine 
how the principal actors and sufferers concerned in 
the misfortune will bear it ; what they will do ; how 
they will look; and so the dull bystander forms a sort 
of drama for himself. He would, perhaps, be told 
that it is wicked for him to go to such an entertain- 
ment : he makes one out for himself, not always 
innocently. 

You hear clergymen in country parishes denouncing 
the ill-nature of their parishioners : it is in vain : the 
better sort of men try to act up to what they are told, 



[ 32 ] 

but really it is so dull in the parish that a bit of 
scandal is welcome to the heart. These poor people 
have nothing to think about; nature shows them com- 
paratively little, for art and science have not taught 
them to look behind the scenes, or even at the scenes ; 
literature they know nothing of; they cannot have 
gossip about the men of the past (which is the most 
innocent kind of gossip), in other words, read and 
discuss history ; they have no delicate handiwork to 
amuse them ; in short, talk they must, and talk they 
will, about their neighbours, whose goings on are a 
perpetual puppet-show to them. 

But, to speak more gravely, man, even the most 
sluggish-minded man, craves amusement of some kind; 
and his wiser and more powerful brethren will show 
their wisdom, or their want of it, in the amusements 
they contrive for him. 

We need not be afraid that in England any art or 
innocent amusement will be cultivated too much. 
The genius of the people, though kindly, is severe. 
And that is why there is so much less danger of their 
being injured, if any one is, by recreation. Cyrus 
kept the Lydians tame, we are told, by allowing them 
to cultivate music; the Greeks were perhaps prevented 
from becoming dominant by a cultivation of many 
arts; but the Anglo-Saxons, like the Romans, can 



[ 33 ] 

afford to cultivate art and recreations of all kinds. 
Such pursuits will not tame them too much. To 
contend, occasionally, against the bent of the genius, 
or the circumstances of a people, is one of the great 
arts of statesmanship. The same thing which is to be 
dreaded in one place is to be cultivated in another; 
here a poison, there an antidote. 

The above is what I thought in reference to Puri- 
tanism during my walk this evening : then, by a not 
uneasy diversion of mind, I turned to another branch 
of small persecutions — small do I call them ? perhaps 
they are the greatest that are endured, certainly the 
most vexatious. I mean all that is perpetuated by 
the tyranny of the weak. 

This is a most fertile subject, and has been nearly 
neglected. Weak is a relative term : whenever two 
people meet, one is comparatively weak and the other 
strong ; the relation between them is often supposed 
to imply this. Taking society in general, there is a 
certain weakness of the kind I mean, attributable to 
the sick, the spoilt, the ill-tempered, the unfortunate, 
the aged, women, and the clergy. Now I venture to 
say, there is no observant man of the world, who has 
lived to the age of thirty, who has not seen numerous 
instances of severe tyranny exercised by persons be- 
longing to one or other of these classes ; and which 



[ 34 ] 

tyranny has been established, continued, and endured, 
solely by reason of the weakness, real or supposed, 
of the persons exercising it. Talking once with a 
thoughtful man on this subject, he remarked to me, 
that, of course, the generous suffered much from the 
tyranny I was speaking of, as the strength of it was 
drawn from their strength. It might be compared to 
an evil government of a rich people, in which their 
riches furnished forth abundant armies wherewith to 
oppress the subject. 

In quiet times this tyranny is very great. I have 
often thought whether it was not one very consider- 
able compensation for rude hard times, or times of 
dire alarm, that domestic tyranny was then pro- 
bably less severe: and among the various forms of 
domestic tyranny none occupies a more distinguished 
place than this of the tyranny of the weak over the 
strong. 

If you come to analyse it, it is a tyranny exercised 
by playing upon the good-nature, the fear of responsi- 
bility, the dread of acting selfishly, the horror of giving 
pain, prevalent among good and kind people. They 
often know that it is a tremendous tyranny they are 
suffering under, and they do not feel it the less 
because they are consenting parties. 

Meditating sometimes upon the results of this 



[ 35 ] 

tyranny, I have thought to myself, what is to stop it ? 
•In a state of further developed Christianity, unless, 
indeed, it were equally developed in all minds, there 
may be only more room for this tyranny. And then 
this strange, but perhaps just idea came into my 
mind, that this tyranny would fall away in a state of 
clearer knowledge such as might accompany another 
state of being ; for then, the secrets of men's hearts 
not being profoundly concealed by silence, or by 
speech, it would be seen what the sufferers thought 
of these tyrannous proceedings ; and the tyrants would 
shrink back, abashed at the enormity of their requisi- 
tions, made visible in the clear mirror of another's 
mind. 

A common form of this tyranny is where the tyrant 
uses a name of great potency, such as that of some 
relationship, and having performed few or none of the 
duties, exacts from the other side a most oppressive 
tribute — oppressive, even if the duties had been 
performed. 

There is one reason for putting a limit to the sub- 
serviency of the strong to the weak, which reason, if 
fully developed, might do more at times to protect 
the strong from the weak than anything I know. 
Surely the most foolish strong person must occasion- 
ally have glimpses that he or she cannot sacrifice 



[ 36 ] 

himself or herself alone : that, in dealing with another 
person, you are in some measure representing the 
outer world ; and ought (to use an official phrase) to 
govern yourself accordingly. We see this in managing 
children : and the most weakly indulgent people find 
that they must make a stop somewhere ; with some 
perception, it is to be hoped, that the world will not 
go on dealing with the children as they (the indulgent 
persons) are doing ; and, therefore, that they are pre- 
paring mischief and discomfort on one side or the 
other for parties who are necessarily to be brought in 
contact. 

The soft mud carried away by the encroaching sea 
cannot say — "I, the soft mud, am to be the only 
victim to this element ; and after I am gone it will no 
more encroach." No, it means to devour the whole 
land if it can. 

Ah, thought I to myself, how important are such 
considerations as those I have had to-day, if we could 
but rightly direct them ; how much of the health and 
wealth of the world depend upon them ! Even in 
those periods when " laws or kings " could do pre- 
dominant good or predominant ill, the miseries of 
private life perhaps outweighed the rest; but now, 
as civilisation advances, the tendency is to some little 



[ 37 ] 

amelioration of great political dangers ; while, at the 
same time, from more refinement, more intricacy of 
affairs, more nervous development, more pretence of 
goodness, more resolve to have everything quite neat 
and smooth and safe, the miseries which the generality 
of men make for themselves do not tend to decrease, 
unless kept down by a continual growth of wise and 
good thoughts and just habits of mind. 
When we talk of 

"The ills that laws or kings can cause or cure," 

our thoughts refer only to the functions of direct and 
open government; but the laws which regulate the 
intercourse of society, public opinion, and, in short, 
that almost impalpable code of thought and action 
which grows up in a very easy fashion between man 
and man, and is clothed with none of the ordinary 
dress of power, may yet be the subtlest and often the 
sternest despotism. 

It is a strange fancy of mine, but I cannot help 
wishing we could " move for returns," as their phrase is 
in Parliament, of the suffering caused in any one day, 
or other period of time, throughout the world, to be 
arranged under certain heads \ and we should then 
see what the world has occasion to fear most. What 
a large amount would come under the heads of 



[ 33 ] 

unreasonable fear of others, of miserable quarrels 
amongst relations upon infinitesimally small subjects, 
of imaginary slights, of undue cares, of false shames, 
of absolute misunderstandings, of unnecessary pains 
to maintain credit or reputation, of vexation that we 
cannot make others of the same mind with ourselves. 
What a wonderful thing it would be to see set down 
in figures, as it were, how ingenious we are in plaguing 
one another. My own private opinion is, that the 
discomfort caused by injudicious dress, worn entirely 
in deference, as it has before been remarked, to the 
most foolish of mankind, in fact to the tyrannous 
majority, would outweigh many an evil that sounds 
very big. 

Tested by these perfect returns, which I imagine 
might be made by the angelic world, if they regard 
\ human affairs, perhaps our every-day shaving, severe 
shirt-collars, and other ridiculous garments, are equiva- 
lent to a great European war once in seven years ; and 
we should find that women's stays did about as much 
harm, i.e., caused as much suffering, as an occasional 
pestilence — say, for instance, the cholera. We should 
find perhaps that the vexations arising from the income- 
tax were nearly equal to those caused amongst the same 
class of sufferers by the ill-natured things men fancy 
have been said behind their backs : and perhaps the 



[ 39 3 

whole burden and vexation resulting from the aggre- 
gate of the respective national debts of that unthrifty 
family, the European race — the whole burden and 
vexation, I say, do not come up to the aggregate 
of annoyances inflicted in each locality by the one 
ill-natured person who generally infests each little 
village, parish, house, or community. 

There is no knowing what strange comparisons and 
discoveries I should in my fancy have been led to — 
perhaps that the love, said to be inherent in the softer 
sex, of having the last word, causes as much mischief 
as all the tornadoes of the Tropics ; or that the vexa- 
tion inflicted by servants on their masters by assuring 
them that such and such duties do not belong to their 
place, is equivalent to all the sufferings that have been 
caused by mad dogs since the world began. But my 
meditations were suddenly interrupted and put to 
flight by a noise, which, in describing afterwards in 
somewhat high-flown terms, I said caused a dismay 
like that which would have been felt if, neglectful of 
the proper periods in history, the Huns, the Vandals, 
and the Visigoths, in fact the unruly population of the 
world, had combined together and rushed down upon 
some quiet, orderly cathedral town. 

In short, the children of my neighbours returning 
from school had dashed into my field, their main 



[ 40 ] 

desire being to behold an arranged heap of stones 
and brick-bats which, after being diligently informed 
of the fact several times by my son Leonard, I had 
learnt was a house he had lately built. 

There is a sort of freemasonry among children j for 
these knew at once that this heap of stones was a 
house, and danced round it with delight as a great 
work of art. Now, do you suppose, to come back to 
the original subject of my meditations to-day, that 
the grown-up child does not want amusement, when 
you see how greedy children are of it? Do not 
imagine we grow out of that : we disguise ourselves 
by various solemnities ; but we have none of us lost 
the child-nature yet. 

I was glad to see how merry the children could 
be, though looking so blue and cold, and still more 
pleased to find that my presence did not scare them 
away, and that they have no grown-up feeling as yet 
about trespassing : I fled, however, from the noise 
into more quiet quarters, and broke up the train of 
reflections of which I now give these outlines, hoping 
they may be of use to some one. 



CHAPTER IV. 

MUCH retrospect is not a very safe or a very 
wise thing : still there are times when a man 
may do well to look back upon his past life, and 
endeavour to take a comprehensive view of it. And 
whether such retrospect is wise or not, it cannot be 
avoided, as our reveries must sometimes turn upon 
that one life, our own, respecting which we have a 
great number of facts very interesting to us, and 
thoroughly within our ken. The process is curiously 
different from that pursued by Alnaschar in the 
"Arabian Nights," who with an imaginary spurn, alas, 
too well interpreted by a real gesture, disposed at 
once of all his splendid fortunes gained in reverie. 
In this progress of retrospection many find that the 
spurn is real as well as the fatal gesture which realised 
it, only both have been administered by the rude 
world instead of by themselves ; the fragments of 
their broken pottery lie around them \ and, going 
back to fond memories of the past, they have to 
reconstruct the original reverie — the dream of their 



[ 42 ] 

youth — the proud purpose of their manhood — how 
fulfilled ! 

Walking up and down amidst the young fir-trees 
in the little plantation to the north-east of the garden, 
and, occasionally, with all the interest of a young 
planter, stopping in front of a particular tree, and 
inspecting this year's growth, I got into such a train 
of retrospect as I have just spoken of: and from that, 
by a process which will be visible to the reader, was 
soon led into thoughts about the future. 

I pictured to myself a descendant of mine, a man 
of dilapidated fortune, but still owning this house and 
garden. The few adjoining fields he will long ago 
have parted with. But he loves the place, having 
been brought up here by his sad, gentle mother, and 
having lived here with his young sister, then a rap- 
turous imaginative girl, his companion and delight. 
Through the smallness of their fortune, and conse- 
quently the narrow circle of their acquaintances, she 
will have married a man totally unfit for her; the 
romance of her nature has turned somewhat sour; 
and, though occasionally high-minded, she is very 
peevish now, and is no longer the companion that 
she was to her brother. He just remembers his 
father pacing with disturbed step under these trees 
which I am now walking about. He recollects before 



[ 43 ] 

his father's death, how eagerly the fond wife used to 
waylay and open large packets, which she would not 
always bring to the dying man's bed. He now knows 
them to have been law papers; and when he thinks of 
these things, he utters harsh words about the iniquity 
of the law in England ; and says something about law 
growing in upon a fallen estate like fungus upon old 
and failing wood. 

These things are now long past : they occurred in 
his childhood. His mother is dead, and lies in that 
quiet churchyard in the wood, where, if I mistake 
not, one of his ancestors will also have found a 
peaceful resting-place. The house has fully partaken 
of the falling fortunes of its successive owners. The 
furniture is too old and worn for any new comer to be 
tempted to occupy the house ; and the little garden 
is let to a market-gardener. Strawberries will grow 
then on the turf where I am now walking, and which 
John, after mowing it twice in the week, and having 
spent all his time in its vicinity, from working-day 
morning till working-day night, comes to look at on a 
Sunday, and, with his hands in his pockets and him- 
self arrayed in a waistcoat too bright almost to behold, 
surveys intently, as if it w r ere one of the greatest pro- 
ducts of human invention. And John need not be 
ashamed of this single-minded delight in his w r ork, 



[ 44 ] 

for, though it is nothing remarkable in England, the 
whole continent of Europe does not probably afford 
such a well-shaven bit of grass : and, as for our love of 
gardens, it is the last refuge of art in the minds and 
souls of many Englishmen : if we did not care for 
gardens, I hardly know what in the way of beauty we 
should care for. Well, this has all ceased by that 
time to be pleasure-garden, and I fear to think of the 
profane cabbages which will then occupy this trim 
velvety little spot. I hope that poor John, from some 
distant place, will not behold the profanation. 

I have lingered on these details ; but I must now 
bring my distant descendant nearer to us. He will 
live in some large town, getting his bread in a humble 
way, and will sometimes steal down here, pretending 
to want to know whether anybody has applied to 
take the tumble-down place. This is what he says to 
his wife (for, of course, being so poor, this foolish 
Milverton has married), but she understands him 
better than to be deceived by that. 

He has just made one of these excursions, having, 
for economy's sake and a wish to avoid the neigh- 
bours, got out at a station ten miles off (our cathedral 
town), and walked over to his house. It is evening, 
and he has just arrived. Tired as he is, he takes a 
turn round the garden, and after a long-drawn sigh, 



[ 45 ] 

which I know well the words for, he enters the house. 
The market-gardener lives in it, and his wife takes 
care of the master's rooms. She has lighted a fire : 
the smoke hardly ascends, but still there is warmth 
enough to call out much of the latent dampness of 
the apartment. The things about him are somewhat 
cheerless certainly, but he would not wish them to be 
otherwise. They would be very inharmonious if they 
were. During his meagre supper he is entertained 
with an account of the repairs that must be looked to. 
The water comes in here, and part of the wall has 
fallen down there ; and farmer Smith says (the coarse 
woman need not have repeated the very words) that 
if Mr Milverton is too poor to mend his own fence, 
he, farmer Smith, must do it himself. Patiently the 
poor man appears to attend to all this, but is think- 
ing all the while of his pale mother, and of his 
wondering, as a child, why she never used to look 
up when horse or man went by, as she sat working 
at that bay window, and getting his clothes ready for 
school. 

At last the market-gardener's wife, little attended 
to, bounces out of the room ; and her abrupt departure 
rouses my distant descendant to think of ways and 
means. And here I cannot help, as if I were present 
at the reverie, breaking in and saying, " Do not cut 



[ 46 1 

down that yew-tree in the back garden, the stately 
well-grown one which was an ancient tree in my 
time." But no, upon second thoughts, I will say 
nothing of the kind. " Cut it down, cut them all 
down, dear distant descendant, rather than let little 
tradesmen want their money, or do the least dis- 
honourable thing." 

Apparently the present question of ways and means 
is settled somehow, for he rises and paces about the 
room. In a corner there lies an aged Parliamentary 
report, a remnant from my old library, the bulk of 
which has long been sold. It is the report of a Select 
Committee upon the effect on prices of the influx of 
Californian gold. There are some side-notes which 
he takes to have been mine ; and this makes him 
think of me — not very kindly. These are his thoughts 
— This ancestor of mine, I see he busied himself about 
many worldly things ; it is not likely that, taking an 
interest in such affairs, he would not have cared to 
have some hand in managing them ; I conjecture that 
indeed, if only from one saying of his, that the bustle 
of life, if good for little else, at least keeps some 
sadness down at the bottom of the heart; and yet 
I do not find that our estate prospered much under 
him. He might now, if he had been a prosperous 



[ 47 ] 

gentleman, have bought some part of Woodcot chase 
(which was sold in his time and is now all building- 
ground), and I should not have been in this cursed 
plight. 

" Distant descendant, do not let misfortune make 
you, as it so often does make men, ungenerous.'' 

He feels this and resumes. I wonder why he did 
not become rich and great. I suspect he was very 
laborious. ("You do me full justice there.") I sup- 
pose he was very versatile, and did not keep to one 
thing at a time. (" You do me injustice there ; for I 
was always aware how much men must limit their 
efforts to effect anything/') In his books he some- 
times makes shrewd worldly remarks which show he 
understood something of the world, and he ought to 
have mastered it. 

" Now, my dear young relative, allow me to say 
that last remark of yours upon character is a very 
weak one. Admitting, for the sake of argument, that 
what you urge in my favour be true, you must know 
that the people who write shrewdly are often the most 
easy to impose upon, or have been so. I almost sus- 
pect, without, however, having looked into the matter, 
that Rochefoucauld was a tender lover, a warm friend, 
and, in general, a dupe (happy for him) to all the 
impulses and affections which he would have us 



[ 48 ] 

imagine he saw through and had mastered. The 
simple write shrewdly : but do not describe what they 
do. And the hard and worldly would be too wise in 
their generation to write about what they practise, 
even if they perceived it, which they seldom do, lack- 
ing delicacy of imagination." 

Perhaps (he continues) this ancestor of mine had 
no ambition, and did not care about anything but that 
unwholesome scribbling (" ungracious again, distant 
descendant ! ") which has brought us in but little pro- 
duce of any kind. 

Dear distant kinsman, now it is my turn to speak : 
now listen to me ; and I will show you the family 
failing, not a very uncommon one, which has reduced 
us by degrees to this sad state; for we, your ancestors, 
look on and suffer with you. 

I am afraid we must own that we were of that foolish 
class of men who never can say a hearty good word 
for themselves. You might put a Milverton in the 
most favourable position in the world, you might have 
made him a bishop in George the Second's time, or a 
minister to a Spanish king in the seventeenth century, 
and still he would have contrived to shuffle awkwardly 
out of wealth and dignities, when the right time came 
for self-assertion, and for saying a stout word for his 
own cause, or for that of his kith and kin. 



[ 49 ] 

"Vox faucibus hsesit;" the poor, simple fellow was 
almost inaudible; and, muttering something, was sup- 
posed to say just that which he' did not. I foresaw, 
therefore, that unless some Milverton were by good 
fortune to marry into a sturdy, pushing family (which 
would be better for him than any amount of present 
fortune), it was all over with the race, as far as worldly 
prosperity is concerned. And so it seems to be. If 
you feel that you are free from this defect, I will 
insure you fortune. Talk of cutting down the yew- 
tree; not a stick of the plantation need be touched, 
and I already see deep belts of new wood rise round 
newly-gained acres. Only be sure that you really can 
stand up stoutly for yourself, 

I see what you are thinking of — that passage in 
Bacon (and it pleases me to find that you are so far 
well read, though you have sold the books) where he 
says that there are occasions when a man needs a 
friend to do or say for him what he never can do or 
say so well, or even at all, for himself. True : but, my 
simple-minded relative, have you lived to the age of 
twenty-seven, and not discovered that (Phoenixes and 
Friends are creatures of the least prolific nature?;/ 
Not that, adopting your misanthropic mood, I would 
say that there are no such creatures as friends, and 
that they are not potent for good. A man's friend^ 



[ So ] 

however, is ill, or travelling, or powerless \ but good 
self-assurance is always within call. 

You are mute : you feel then that you are guilty 
too. Be comforted \ perhaps there is some island of 
the blest where there will be no occasion for pushing. 
Once this happened to me, that a great fierce obdu- 
rate crowd were pushing up in long line towards a 
door which was to lead them to some good thing ; 
and I, not liking the crowd, stole out of it, having 
made up my mind to be last, and was leaning 
indolently against a closed-up side door : when, all 
of a sudden, this door opened, and I was the first to 
walk in, and saw arrive long after me the men who 
had been thrusting and struggling round me. This 
does not often happen in the world, but I think there 
was a meaning in it. 

But now no more about me. We have to think 
what is to be done in your case. 

You labour under a retiring disposition, you are 
married, and you wish to retrieve the family fortunes. 
This is a full and frank statement of your case, and 
there is no doubt that it is a very bad one, requiring 
wise and energetic remedies. First, you must at once 
abandon all those pursuits which depend for success 
upon refined appreciation. You must seek to do some- 
thing which many people demand. I cannot illustrate 



[ 5i ] 

what I mean better than by telling you what I often tell 
my publisher, whenever he speaks of the slackness 
of trade. There is a confectioner's shop next door, 
which is thronged with people : I beg him (the pub- 
lisher) to draw a moral from this, and to set up, 
himself, an eating-house. That would be appealing 
to the million in the right way. I tell him he could 
hire me and others of his " eminent hands " to cook 
instead of to write, and then, instead of living on our 
wits (slender diet indeed !), we ourselves should be 
able to buy books, and should become great patrons of 
literature. I did not tell him, because it is not wise 
to run down authors in the presence of publishers, 
what I may mention to you, that many of us would 
be much more wisely and wholesomely employed in 
cooking than in writing. But this is nothing to you. 
What I want you, dear distant kinsman, to perceive, 
is, that you must at once cultivate something which 
is in general demand. Emigrate, if you like, and 
cultivate the ground. Cattle are always in some 
demand, if only for tallow. It is better to provide 
the fuel for the lamp than those productions which 
are said to smell most of it. I cannot enter into 
details with you ; because I do not foresee what will 
be the flourishing trades in your time. I can only 
give you general advice. 



[ 5* ] 

One of the great aids, or hindrances, to success in 
anything lies in the temperament of a man. I do not 
know yours ; but I venture to point out to you what 
is the best temperament, namely, a combination of 
the desponding and the resolute, or, as I had better 
express it, of the apprehensive and the resolute. Such 
is the temperament of great commanders. Secretly, 
they rely upon nothing and upon nobody. There is 
such a powerful element of failure in all human affairs, 
that a shrewd man is always saying to himself, what 
shall I do, if that which I count upon does not come 
out as I expect. This foresight dwarfs and crushes 
all but men of great resolution. 

Then be not over-choice in looking out for what 
may exactly suit you ; but rather be ready to adopt 
any opportunities that occur. Fortune does not stoop 
often to take any one up. Favourable opportunities 
will not happen precisely in the way that you have 
imagined. Nothing does. Do not be discouraged, 
therefore, by a present detriment in any course which 
may lead to something good. Time is so precious 
here. 

Get, if you can, into one or other of the main 
grooves of human affairs. It is all the difference of 
going by railway, and walking over a ploughed field, 
whether you adopt common courses, or set up one for 



[ 53 ] 

yourself. You will see, if your times are anything 
like ours, very inferior persons highly placed in the 
army, in the church, in office, at the bar. They have 
somehow got upon the line, and have moved on well 
with very little original motive power of their own. 
Do not let this make you talk as if merit were utterly 
neglected in these or any professions : only that gett- 
ing well into the groove will frequently do instead of 
any great excellence. 

My sarcastic friend, Ellesmere, whom you will pro- 
bably know by repute as a great Chief Justice or Lord 
Chancellor, says, with the utmost gravity, that no man 
with less than a thousand pounds a year (I wonder 
whether in your times you will think that a large or a 
small income) can afford to have private opinions 
upon certain important subjects. He admits that he 
has known it done upon eight hundred a year; but 
only by very prudent people with small families. 

But the night is coming on, and I feel, my dear 
descendant, as if I should like to say something more 
solemn to you than these worldly maxims. 

Whatever happens, do not be dissatisfied with your 
worldly fortunes, lest the speech be justly made to 
you which was once made to a repining person much 
given to talk of how great she and hers had been. 



[ 54 ] 

" Yes, madam," was the crushing reply, " we all find 
our level at last." 

Eternally that fable is true, of a choice being given 
to men on their entrance into life. Two majestic 
women stand before you : one in rich vesture, superb, 
with what seems like a mural crown on her head and 
plenty in her hand, and something of triumph, I will 
not say of boldness, in her eye ; and she, the queen 
of this world, can give you many things. The other 
is beautiful, but not alluring, nor rich, nor powerful ; 
and there are traces *of care and shame and sorrow in 
her face ; and (marvellous to say) her look is down- 
cast and yet noble. She can give you nothing, but 
she can make you somebody. If "you cannot bear 
to part from her sweet sublime countenance, which 
hardly veils with sorrow its infinity, follow her : follow 
her, I say, if you are really minded so to do ; but do 
not, while you are on this track, look back with 
ill-concealed envy on the glittering things which fall 
in the path of those who prefer to follow the rich 
dame, and to pick up the riches and honours which 
fall from her cornucopia. 

This is in substance what a true artist said to me 
only the other day, impatient, as he told me, of the 
complaints of those who would pursue art, and yet 
would have fortune. 



[ 55 ] 

But, indeed, all moral writings teem with this 
remark in one form or other. You cannot have 
inconsistent advantages. Do not shun this maxim 
because it is commonplace. On the contrary, take 
the closest heed of what observant men, who would 
probably like to show originality, are yet constrained 
to repeat. Therein lies the marrow of the wisdom of 
the world. Such things are wiser than proverbs, which 
are seldom true except for the occasion on which they 
are used, and are generally good to strengthen a 
resolve rather than to enlighten it. 

These latter words of mine fall upon an inatten- 
tive ear ; for my distant descendant, who has been 
gradually becoming more composed during the pro- 
gress of this moral essay, at last falls quite asleep. 
Perhaps the great triumph of all moral writings, in- 
cluding sermons, is, that at least they have produced 
some sweet and innocent sleep. 

Poor fellow ! I now see how careworn he seems, 
though not without some good looks, which he owes 
to his great-great-great-grandmother, of whom, as he 
lies there, he puts me much in mind. He ought to 
thank me for those good looks, and to admit that 
winning some beauty for the family is at least as 
valuable as that Woodcot chase which he thinks 
I oudit to have laid hold of. But our unfair de- 



[ 56 ] 

scendants never think of anything in our favour : 
this gout and that asthma and those mortgages are 
all remembered against us ; we hear but little on the 
other side. 

Sleep on, dear distant progeny of mine, and I will 
keep the night watches of your anxious thought. 



CHAPTER V. 

THESE companions of my solitude, my reveries, 
take many forms. Sometimes, the nebulous 
stuff out of which they are formed, comes together 
with some method and set purpose, and may be 
compared to a heavy cloud — then they will do for 
an essay or moral discourse ; at other times, they 
are merely like those sportive disconnected forms of 
vapour which are streaked across the heavens, now 
like a feather, now like the outline of a camel, 
doubtless obeying some law and with some design, 
but such as mocks our observation ; at other times 
again, they arrange themselves like those fleckered 
clouds, where all the heavens are regularly broken 
up in small divisions, lying evenly over each other 
with light between each. The result of this last- 
mentioned state of reverie is well brought out in 
conversation : and so I am going to give the reader 
an account of some talk which I had lately with my 
friend Ellesmere. 

Once or twice before I have used this name 



[ 58 ] 

Ellesmere, as if it were familiar to others as to myself. 
It is to be found in a book edited, as it appears, by a 
neighbouring clergyman, named Dunsford, who was 
obliging and laborious enough to set down some 
conversations in which he, Ellesmere, and myself 
took part • and which he called " Friends in Council." 
There is no occasion to refer to this book to under- 
stand Ellesmere : a man soon shows himself by his 
talk, if he does by anything. Moreover the average 
reader will find the book a somewhat sober, not to 
say dull affair, embracing such questions as slavery, 
government, management of the poor, and such like. 
The reader, however, who is not the average reader, 
may perhaps find something worth agreeing with, or 
differing from, in the book. 

I flatter myself that last sentence is very skilful. 
The poor publisher, or rather his head man, com- 
plains sadly that not even the usual amount of 
advertisement, not to speak of puffing, is allowed to 
him ; the good clergyman having a peculiar aversion 
to such modes of dealing, and believing that good 
books, if there were such things, should be sought 
after, and not poked in the faces of purchasers like 
Jews' penknives at coach doors. By this delicate 
piece of flattery, for each reader will secretly conclude 
that he is above the average and hasten to buy the 



[ 59 ] 

book, I shall have done more than many puffs direct. 
Therefore be at ease, man of business, the avenues to 
thy shop will be thronged. I can utter this prophecy 
with the more confidence as the shop in question is in 
the high road to the Great Exhibition. 

Well, my friend ^Ellesmere was with me for a day ; 
we were lounging about the garden • the great black 
dog which I always let loose when Ellesmere is here, 
to please him, was slowly following us to and fro, 
hanging out his large tongue, and wishing we would 
sit down, but still not being able to resist following us 
about; when Ellesmere suddenly interrupted some- 
thing I was saying with these words, " The question 
between us almost comes to this : you want a sheep- 
dog. I am satisfied with a watch-dog — Rollo will do 
for me ; and, as you see, he is content with my appro- 
bation." 

This abrupt speech requires some explanation. I 
had been talking about some matters connected with 
statesmanship, and stricturing, perhaps too severely, 
some recent acts of government, in which, as I said, 
I detected some of the worst habits of modern policy 
— a mixture of rashness and indecision — meddling 
and doing nothing — spending, as I added, most of 
the powder for the flash in the pan. Then I went 
on to deplore, that always statesmanship appeared to 



[ 6o ] 

come upon the stage too late. Is nothing ever to be 
done in time ? * 

A good deal of what I said is true, I think, but 
ought to be taken " cum grano," as they say ; for men 
who have lived a good deal in active life, and are 
withdrawn from it, are apt to comment too severely 
on the conduct of those who are left behind. They 
forget the difficulty of getting anything done in this 
perplexed world, and their own former difficulties 
in that way are softened by distance. It was well 
that Ellesmere interrupted me. The conversation 
thus proceeded. 

Milverton. Yes, that is the point. I confess I 
should like something of the sheep-dog in a ruler. 
I think w r e, of all nations, can bear judicious inter- 
ference and regulation j we should not be cramped 
by it. 

Ellesmere, In a representative government is the 
folly of the governed to find no place ? 

Milverton. Yes, but, my good friend, you need 
not be anxious to provide for that. Folly will find 
a place even at the side of princes. That was the 
thing symbolised by great men's jesters. But, putting 

* Written in 1850. 



[ 6x ] 

sarcasm aside, Ellesmere, I don't mean to blame 
present men so much as present doctrines and 
systems. Some of the men in power, or likely to 
be, in this country, are very honest, capable, brave 
men, full of desire to do good. But they have too 
little power, or rather, they meet with too much 
obstruction. Now, it is not wise to swathe a creature 
up like a foreign baby, and then say, Exert yourself, 
govern us, let there be no delay. 

Ellesmere. The amount of obstruction is over- 
estimated. If a ruling man wanted to do anything 
good, I think he could do it, though I do admit 
that there are large powers of obstruction to be 
encountered. 

Milverton. I do believe you are right. A states- 
man might venture to be greater and bolder than 
his position or apparent power quite warrants. And 
if he were to fall, he would fall — and there an end. 

Elksmere, And no such great damage either. 

Milverton. But to return to your watch-dog and 
sheep-dog. There are two things very different 
demanded from statesmen : one, carrying on the 
routine of office ; the other, originating measures, 
setting the limits within which private exertion should 
act. You do not mean to contend, Ellesmere, that it 
would not have been wise for a government to have 



[ 62 ] 

interfered with railway legislation earlier and more 
efficiently than it did. 

Ellesmere. No — few people know better than I 
do the immense loss of time, money, labour, temper, 
and happiness which might have been saved in that 
matter. 

Milverton. Now look again on Sanitary measures. 
Consider the years it has taken, and, for aught I 
know, may yet take, to get a Smoke Prohibition 
Bill passed. If such a thing is wise and possible, 
let us have it ; if not, tell us it cannot be done. I 
have taken instances in physical things just as they 
occurred to me : I might have alluded to higher 
matters which are left in the same way, to see what 
will happen, to wait for the breezes, perhaps the 
storms, of popular agitation. 

Ellesmere. People in authority are as fearful of 
attacking any social evil as men are of cutting down 
old trees about their houses. There is always some- 
thing, however, to be said for the old trees. 

Milverton. It would mostly be better, though, to 
cut them down at once, and begin to plant something 
at the proper distance from their houses. 

Ellesmere. Well, Milverton, there is one thing you 
must remember, and that is, that intelligent men 
writing or talking about government are apt to fancy 



[ 6 3 ] 

themselves, or such men as themselves, in power; 
and so are inclined to be very liberal in assigning the 
limits of that power. Let them fancy some of the 
foolish people they know in this imaginary position of 
great power; and then see how the intelligent men 
begin to shudder at the thought of this power, and to 
desire very secure limits for it, and very narrow space 
for its exercise. 

Milverton, Intelligent public opinion will in these 
days prevent vigorous action in a minister from 
hardening into despotism. 

Ellesmere. Please repeat that again, my friend. 
" Intelligent public opinion ? " Were those the 
words ? did I catch them rightly ? 

Milverton, You did. There is such a thing, Elles- 
mere. It is not the first opinion heard in the country; 
it is not always loud on the hustings ; but surely there 
are a great number of persons in a country like this, 
who try to think, and eventually form intelligent 
public opinion. 

Ellesmere, I am afraid they are not a very active 
body. 

Milverton. Not the most active ; but they come in 
at some time. 

Ellesmere, I do not wish to be impertinent, but do 
any of these people who ultimately (ultimately, I like 



[ 64 ] 

that word) form intelligent public opinion, live in the 
country? I can imagine a retired wisdom in some 
Court in London, say Pump Court for instance, but I 
cannot fancy the blowsy wisdom of the country. 

Milverton. Now, Ellesmere, do not be provoking. 

Ellesmere. I am all gravity again : but just allow 
me to propound one little theory, namely, that it is 
when the retired wisdom of town is revivified by 
country air (on a visit) that it is apt to develop itself 
into — what is it ? — oh — " intelligent public opinion." 

Milverioii. Now, as you have had your joke, I 
will proceed. I have a theory that the temperament 
and habits of mind of individual statesmen have a 
good deal to do with government. I do not yet 
believe that w r e are all compounded into some 
great machine of which you can exactly calculate 
the results. 

Ellesmere. What is your pet temperament for a 
statesman ? 

Milvertoii. That is a large question : one thing 
I should be inclined to say, with respect to his habit 
of mind — he should doubt till the last, and then act 
like a man who has never doubted. 

Ellesmere. Cleverly put, but untrue, after the 
fashion of you maxim-mongers. He should not act 
like a man who has never doubted, but like a man 



C 65 ] 

who was in the habit of doubting till he had received 
sufficient information. He should not convey to you 
the idea of a man who was given to doubt, or 
not to doubt; but of one who could wait till he 
had inquired. 

Milverton. Your criticism is just. Well, then, 
another thing which occurs to me respecting his 
habits of mind is, that he should be one of those 
people who are not given to any system, and yet 
who have an exceeding love of improvement and 
disposition to regulate. 

Ellesmere. That is good. I distrust systems. I 
find that men talk of principles ; and mean, when you 
come to inquire, rules connected with certain systems. 

Milverton. This enables me to bring my notions 
of government interference to a point. It should be 
a principle in a statesman's mind that he should not 
interfere so as to deaden private action : at the same 
time he should be profoundly anxious that right and 
good should be done, and consequently not fear to 
undertake responsibility. He should not be entrapped, 
mentally, into any system of policy which held him to 
interfere here, or not to interfere there ; but he should 
be inclined to look at each case on its own merits. 
This is very hard work. Systems save trouble — the 
trouble of thinking. 



[ 66 ] 

Ellesmere. There is some sense in what you say. 
If we talk no more about statesmanship (and to tell 
the truth, I am rather tired of the subject), our 
dialogue will end like the dialogues in a book, where, 
after much sham stage-fighting, the author's opinion is 
always made to prevail. By the way, I daresay you 
think that the nursery for Statesmen is Literature ; and 
that in these days of railways, a short line from Grub 
Street to Downing Street (a single set of rails, as no 
one will want to return) is imperatively needed. 

Milverton. No, I do not. I think that good 
Literature, like any other good work, gives notice 
of material out of which a statesman might choose. 
To make a good book, my dear friend, is a very hard 
thing, I suspect. I do not mean a work of genius. 
Of course such are very rare. But to give an account 
of any transaction \ to put forward any connected 
views j in short, to do any mere literary work well ; it 
requires many of the things which tend to make a 
good man of business — industry, for instance, method, 
clearness, resolve, power of adaptation. 

Ettestnere. Yes, no doubt : foreign nations seem 
to have profited so much from calling literary men to 
their aid, that- 

Milverton. That is an unjust sneer, Ellesmere. 
Some of the writings of the men to whom I know 



[ 67 ] 

you allude, do not fulfil the condition of being 
good books ; are full of false antitheses, illogical 
conclusions, vapid assertions, and words arranged 
according to prettiness, not to meaning. Such books 
are beacons ; they tell all men, The people who wrote 
us are sprightly fellows, but cannot be trusted ; they 
love sound more than sense, pray do not trust them 
with any function requiring sense rather than sound. 

But you are not to conclude because some men 
make use of Literature, perhaps the only way open to 
them of carrying their views into action, that they 
could not act themselves. Napoleon was always 
writing early in life ; Caesar indited books, even a 
grammar ; a whole host of captains and statesmen in 
the sixteenth century were writers. Follow Cervantes, 
Mendoza, Sidney, Camoens, Descartes, Paul Louis 
Courier, to the field, and come back with them — if 
you ever do come back alive, you individual clothed 
with horsehair and audacity; and then follow them to 
their studies, and see whether they cannot give a good 
account of themselves in both departments. 

Ellesmere. Pistol is come back again on earth, or 
Bombastes Furioso, neither of whose characters sits 
well upon you. But, my friend, we are wont in law 
to look to the point at issue ; we were talking of 
statesmen, not of soldiers. 



[ 68 .] 



Milverton. Machiavelli- 



Ellesmere. That worthy man ! 

Milverton. Caesar again ! Lorenzo de* Medici, 
James the First of Scotland, Milton, Bacon, Grotius, 
Shaftesbury, Somers, St John, Temple, Burke. And 
were I to rack my brains, or my books, I could no 
doubt make an ample list. 

Ellesmere. Good, bad, and indifferent : here they 
come, altogether. 

Milverton. And have there been no bad statesmen 
amongst those who had no tincture of letters ? 

Ellesmere. One or two, certainly. 

Milverton. You know, Ellesmere, I have never 
talked loudly of the claims of literary men, and have 
always maintained that for them, especially when 
they are of real merit, to complain of neglect is for 
the most part absurd. A great writer, as I think 
Mr Carlyle has well said, creates a want for himself 
— a most artificial one. Nobody wanted him before 
he appeared. He has to show them what they w r ant 
him for. You might as well talk of Leverrier's planet 
having been neglected in George the Second's time. 
It had not been discovered : that is all. 

There may be misunderstandings as to the nature 
of literary merit, as indeed of all merit, which may 
prevent worldly men from making due use of it in 



[ 69 ] 

worldly affairs. For instance, I should say that diplo- 
matic services are services peculiarly fit to be per- 
formed by literary men. They are likely to be more 
of cosmopolites than other men are. Their various 
accomplishments serve them as means of attaching 
others in strange countries. Their observations are 
likely to be good. One can easily see that a great 
deal of their habitual work would come into play in 
such employments. And there is an appearance of 
hardship in not giving, at least occasionally, to men 
who are particularly shut out from most worldly 
advantages, those offices which they promise to be 
most fitted for. 

Ellesmere. It would improve many a literary man 
greatly to have, or to have had, some real business. 

Mihertoii. No doubt. Indeed, I have always 
thought it is a melancholy thing to see how shut up, 
or rather I should say, how twisted and deformed a 
man becomes by surrendering himself to any one art, 
science, calling, or culture. You see a person become 
a lawyer, a physician, a clergyman, an author, or an 
artist ; and cease to be a man, a wholesome man, 
fairly developed in all ways. Each man's art or 
function, however serviceable, should be attached 
to him no more than to a soldier his sword, which 
the accomplished military man can lay aside, and 



[ 7° ] 

not even remind you that he has ever worn such 
a thing. 

Ellesmere. An idea strikes me ; I see how literary 
men may be rewarded, literature soundly encouraged, 
and yet the author be injured the least possible by his 
craft. Hitherto we have given pensions for what a 
man has written. I would do this : I would ascertain 
when a man has acquired that lamentable facility for 
doing second-rate things which is not uncommon in 
literature as in other branches of life, and then I 
would say to him, I see you can write, here is a 
hundred a year for you as long as you are quite 
quiet. Indeed, I think pensions and honours should 
generally be given to the persons who could have done 
the things for which such rewards are given, but who 
have not done them. I would say to this man, You 
have great parliamentary influence, you did not use it 
for mere party purposes ; there is a peerage for you. 
You, turning to another man, might have become a 
great lawyer, or rather a lawyer in great place : you 
had too much 

Milverton. Modesty 

Ellesmere. Pooh, nonsense ! modesty never did 
anybody any harm. No, let me go on with my 
speech. You had too much honesty, or scrupulous- 
ness, to escape being thrown out for the borough of 



[ 7i ] 

which (as a lawyer to get on in the highest 

offices must please a constituency as well as under- 
stand his business) was fatal to you. Here, however, 
is a baronetcy for you. 

Here, you, Mr Milverton, you might have written 
two books a year (dreadful thought !), you have not 
always inflicted one upon us. Be Guelphed, and 
consider yourself well off. Keep yourself quiet for 
several years, and we may advance you further. 

Oh ! what a patron of arts and letters is lost in me ! 
Now this dog can bark and make a horrible noise to 
distinguish himself; he does not do it — that is why I 
like you so much, my dear Rollo (at that instant, 
unluckily, Rollo, taking heed of Ellesmere's comical 
gestures, and seeing that something was addressed to 
him, began to frisk about and bark). Oh, dear me ! I 
see one can't praise or encourage any creature without 
doing mischief. 

Milverto?i. You have not to reproach yourself for 
having done much in this way. 

Ellesmere. Too much — sadly too much. But here 
comes John with a solicitous face, to get your orders 
about planting the trees which came last night, and 
which ought to have been put in early this morning. 
Attend to them : they are your great works \ some of 
them may live to a remote posterity : and while you 



[ 72 ] 

are about it, my good fellow, do put in something 
which will produce eatables. Those fir-cones are very 
pretty things, but hard to eat. Remember that a 
certain learned gentleman who hopes to live to a 
good old age, is very fond of mulberries ; and if some 
trees were put in now, he might have something good 
to eat when he comes into the country, and be able 
to refresh himself after delivering judicious opinions 
on all subjects. 

So we separated — I to my trees, and Ellesmere to 
take the dog out for a walk. 



CHAPTER VI. 

I RESOLVED today to go out into the neighbour- 
ing pine-wood alone, to con over some notes 
which I am anxious to read by myself, with only an 
occasional remark from a wood-pigeon, or what may 
be gained from the gliding, rustling squirrel. There 
is scarcely anything in nature to be compared with a 
pine-wood, I think. I remember once when, after a 
long journey, I was approaching a city ennobled by 
great works of art, and of great renown, that I had to 
pass through what I was told by the guide-books was 
most insipid country, only to be hurried over as fast 
as might be, and nothing to be thought or said about 
it. But the guide-books, though very clever and 
useful things in their way, do not know each of us 
personally, nor what we secretly like and care for. 
Well, I was speeding through this "uninteresting" 
country, and now there remained but one long dull 
stage, as I read, to be gone through before I should 
reach the much-wished-for city. It was necessary to 
stay some time (for we travelled vetturino fashion) at 



[ 74 ] 

the little post-house, and I walked on, promising to 
be in the way whenever the vehicle should overtake 
me. The road led through a wood, chiefly of pines, 
varied, however, occasionally by other trees. 

Into this wood I strayed. There was that almost 
indescribably soothing noise (the Romans would have 
used the word " susurrus "), the aggregate of many 
gentle movements of gentle creatures. The birds 
hopped but a few paces off, as I approached them ; 
the brilliant butterflies wavered hither and thither 
before me ; there was a soft breeze that day, and the 
tops of the tall trees swayed to and fro politely to 
each other. I found many delightful resting-places. 
It was not all dense wood ; but here and there were 
glades (such open spots, I mean, as would be cut 
through by the sword for an army to pass) ; and here 
and there stood a clump of trees of different heights 
and foliage, as beautifully arranged as if some triumph 
of the art of landscape had been intended, though it 
was only Nature's way of healing up the gaps in the 
forest. For her healing is a new beauty. 

It was very warm, without which nothing is beau- 
tiful to me; and I fell into the pleasantest train of 
thought. The easiness of that present moment seemed 
to show the possibility of all care being driven away 
from the world some day. For thus peace brings a 



[ 75 ] 

sensation of power with it. I shall not say what I 
thought of, for it is not good always to be communi- 
cative i but altogether that hour in the pine-wood was 
the happiest hour of the w T hole journey, though I saw 
many grand pictures and noble statues, a mighty river 
and buildings which were built when people had their 
own clear thoughts of what they meant to do, and 
how they would do it. But in seeing these things 
there is, so to speak, something that is official, that 
must be done in a set w r ay ; and, after all, it is the 
chance felicities in minor things w T hich are so pleasant 
in a journey. You had intended, for instance, to go 
and hear some great service, and there was something 
to be done, and a crowd to be encountered ; and you 
open your window and find, as the warm air streams 
in, that beautiful sounds come with it \ in truth, your 
window is not far off from an opening in one of the 
cathedral windows, and there you stay drinking in all 
the music, being alone. You feel that a bit of good 
fortune has happened to you ; and you are happier all 
the day for it. 

It is the same thing in the journey of life : pleasure 
falls into no plan. 

I think I have justified my liking for a pine-wood ; 
and though the particular wood I can get at here is 



C 76 ] 

but a poor thing as compared with the great forests 
I have been thinking of, yet, looked at with all the 
reminiscence of their beauties, its few and mean parti- 
culars are so wrought upon by memory and fancy, that 
it brings before me a sufficient picture, half seen, half 
recollected, of all that is most beautiful in sylvan 
scenery. 

To my wood then I wandered : and, after pacing 
up and down a little, and enjoying the rich colour of 
the trunks of the trees, I sat down upon a tree that had 
been lately felled, and read out my notes to myself. 
Here they are. They begin, I see, with a little narra- 
tion j which, however, is not a bad beginning. 

It was a bright winter's day; and I sat upon a 
garden-seat in a sheltered nook towards the south, 
having come out of my study to enjoy the warmth, 
like a fly that has left some snug crevice to stretch his 
legs upon the unwontedly sunny pane in December. 
My little daughter (she is a very little thing about four 
years old) came running up to me, and when she had 
arrived at my knees, held up a straggling but pretty 
weed. Then, with great earnestness, and as if fresh 
from some controversy on the subject, she exclaimed, 
"Is this a weed, Papa; is this a weed?" 

" Yes, a weed," I replied. 



[ 77 ] 

With a look of disappointment she moved off to the 
one she loved best amongst us ; and, asking the same 
question, received the same answer. 

" But it has flowers," the child replied. 

" That does not signify ; it is a weed," was the 
inexorable answer. 

Presently, after a moment's consideration, the child 
ran off again, and meeting the gardener just near my 
nook, though out of sight from where I sat, she coax- 
ingly addressed him. 

" Nicholas dear, is this a weed ? " 

" Yes, miss ; they call it ' Shepherd's purse.'" 

A pause ensued : I thought the child was now fairly 
silenced by authority, when all at once the little voice 
began again, " Will you plant it in my garden, Nicholas 
dear? do plant it in my garden/' 

There was no resisting the anxious entreaty of the 
child ; and man and child moved off together to plant 
the weed in one of those plots of ground which the 
children walk about upon a good deal, and put 
branches of trees in and grown-up flowers, and then 
examine the roots (a system as encouraging as other 
systems of education I could name), and which they 
call their gardens. 

But the child's words, " Will you plant it in my 



[ 78 ] 

garden ? " remained upon my mind. That is what I 
have always been thinking, I exclaimed : and it is 
what I will begin by saying. 

And, indeed, dear reader, if I were to tell you 
how long I have been thinking of the subject which 
I mean to preface by the child's fond words; and 
how hopeless it has at times appeared to me to say 
anything worth hearing about it; and how I have 
still clung to my resolve, and worked on at other 
things with a view of coming eventually to this, you 
would sympathise with me already, as we do with 
any man who keeps a task long in mind and heart, 
though he execute it at last but poorly, and though it 
be but a poor task, such as a fortune for himself, or 
a tomb for his remains. For we like to see a man 
persevere in anything. 

Without more preface, then, I will say at once that 
this subject is one which I have been wont to call 
" the great sin of great cities " — not that in so calling 
it, I have perhaps been strictly just, but the descrip- 
tion will do well enough. For what is the thing 
which must so often diminish the pride of man when 
contemplating the splendid monuments of a great 
city, its shops, its public buildings, parks, equipages, 
and above all, the wonderful way in which vast 
crowds of people go about their affairs with so 



[ 79 ] 

little outward contest and confusion ? I imagine the 
beholder in the best parts of the town, not diving into 
narrow streets, wandering sickened and exhausted near 
uncovered ditches in squalid suburbs, or studiously 
looking behind the brilliant surface of things. But 
what is it which on that very surface, helping to 
form a part of the brilliancy (like the prismatic 
colours seen on stagnant film), conveys at times to 
any thoughtful mind an impression of the deepest 
mournfulness, a perception of the dark blots upon 
human civilisation, — in a word, some appreciation of 
the great sin of great cities? The vile sewer, the 
offensive factory chimney, the squalid suburb, tell 
their own tale very clearly. The girl with hardened 
look, and false imprinted smile, tells one no less 
ominous of evil. 

In fact I do not know any one thing which concen- 
trates and reflects more accurately the evils of any 
society than this sin. It is a measure of the want of 
employment, the uncertainty of employment, the moral 
corruption amongst the higher classes, the want of 
education amongst the lower, the relaxation of bonds 
between master and servant, employer and employed ; 
and, indeed, it expresses the want of prudence, truth, 
light, and love in that community. 



[ 8o ] 

In considering any evil, our thoughts may be classed 
under three heads — the nature of it, the causes of it, 
the remedies for it. Often the discussion of any one 
of these great branches of the subject involves the 
other two; and it becomes difficult to divide them 
without pedantry. But in general, we may, for con- 
venience, attend to such a division of the subject. 



I. The Nature. 

The nature of the evil in this case is one which 
does not require to be largely dwelt upon ; and yet 
several things must be said about it. One which 
occurs to me is the degradation of race. Thousands 
upon thousands of beautiful women are by it con- 
demned to sterility. As a nation, we should look 
with exceeding jealousy and alarm at any occupation 
which claimed our tallest men and left them without 
offspring. And, surely, it is no light matter, in a 
national point of view, that any sin should claim the 
right of consuming, sometimes as rapidly as if they 
were a slave population, a considerable number of the 
best-looking persons in the community. 

How slight, however, is the physical degradation 
compared with the mental degradation caused by this 



[ 8i ] 

sin : and here I do not mean only the dishonour of 
the individuals, but the large social injury which 
the mere existence of such a thing causes. For it 
accustoms men to the contemplation of the greatest 
social failures, and introduces habitually a low view of 
the highest things. We are apt to look at each indi- 
vidual case too harshly • but the whole thing is not 
looked at gravely enough. This often happens in 
considering any great social abuse; and so we fre- 
quently commence the remedy by some great injustice 
in a particular case. 

In appreciating the nature of this evil, the feelings 
of the people concerned with it are a large part of the 
subject. On the one side are shame, pride, dejection, 
restlessness, hopelessness, and a sense of ill-usage, 
resulting in a bitter effrontery, a mean heartlessness, 
and a godless remorse. As a mere matter of states- 
manship such a class requires to be looked to as pre- 
eminently dangerous. On the other side is often 
the meanness without the shame ; and a permanent 
coarseness and unholiness of mind is inflicted upon 
the sex that most requires refinement and spirituality 
in the affections. 

To return, however, to a consideration of the feel- 
ings of the poor women ; it may be noticed that they 
have an excessive fear of being left alone with their 



[ 82 ] 

own recollections, which is no doubt a great obstacle 
to their being reclaimed. Withal there is something 
very grand, though sad, that one of the main obstacles 
to outward improvement lies in the intensity of shame 
for the wrong-doing, in a dumb but profound remorse. 
You may see similar feelings operating very variously 
among the greatest men whose spiritual state is at all 
known to us. Poor Luther exclaims,. "When I am 
assailed with heavy tribulations, I rush out among my 
pigs, rather than remain alone by myself. The human 
heart is like a millstone in a mill: when you put wheat 
under it, it turns and grinds and bruises the wheat to 
flour ; if you put no wheat, it still grinds on, but then 
it is itself it grinds and wears away." 

Certainly the Gospel seems especially given to 
meet these cases of remorse, and to prevent despair 
(not the tempter but the slave-driver to so many 
crimes) from having an unjust and irreligious hold, 
not so much on men's fears as on their fancies — 
especially their notions of perfection as regards them- 
selves. For I doubt not but that men and women 
much lower down in the scale of cultivation and 
sensibility than we imagine, are haunted by a sense 
of their own fall from what they feel and think they 
ought to have been. 



[ 8 3 ] 

II. The Causes. 

The main cause of this sin on the woman's part is 
want — absolute want This, though one of the most 
grievous things to contemplate, has at the same time 
a large admixture of hope in it. For, surely, if civili- 
sation is to make any sufficient answer for itself and 
for the many serious evils it promotes, it ought to be 
that it renders the vicissitudes of life less extreme, 
that it provides a resource for all of us against exces- 
sive want. Hitherto we have not succeeded in making 
it do so, but it is contended, and with apparent justice, 
that it acts better in this respect than savage life. At 
any rate, to return to the main course of my argument, 
it is more satisfactory to hear that this evil is a result, 
on one side at least, of want rather than of depravity. 

The next great cause is in the over-rigid views and 
opinions, especially as against women, expressed in 
reference to unchastity. Christianity has been in some 
measure to blame for this \ though, if rightly applied, 
it would have been the surest "cure. " Publicans and 
sinners ! " Such did He prefer before the company 
of Pharisees and hypocrites. These latter, however, 
have been in great credit ever since ; and, for my 
part, I see no end to their being pronounced for ever 
the choice society of the world. 



[ 84 ] 

The virtuous, carefully tended and carefully brought 
up, ought to bethink themselves how little they may 
owe to their own merit that they are virtuous, for it is 
in the evil concurrence of bad disposition and master- 
less opportunity that crime comes. Of course, to an 
evil-disposed mind, opportunity will never be wanting ; 
but when one person or class of persons is from 
circumstances peculiarly exposed to temptation, and 
goes wrong, it is no great stretch of charity for others 
to conclude that that person, or class, did not begin 
with worse dispositions than they themselves who are 
still without a stain. This is very obvious ; but it is 
to be observed that the reasoning powers which are 
very prompt in mastering any simple scientific pro- 
position, experience a wonderful halting in their logic 
when applied to the furtherance of charity. 

There is a very homely proverb about the fate of 
the pitcher that goes often to the water, which might 
be an aid to charity, and which bears closely on 
the present case. The Spaniards, from whom I dare- 
say we have the proverb, express it prettily and 
pithily : — 

" Cantarillo que muchas vezes va a la fuente, 
O dexa la asa, o la frente." 

"The little pitcher that goes often to the fountain, either 
leaves the handle or the spout behind some day." 



C 8 S ] 

The dainty vase which is kept under a glass case in 
a drawing-room should not be too proud of remaining 
without a flaw, considering its great advantages. 

*In the New Testament we have such matters treated 
in a truly Divine manner. There is nojpalliation of 
crime. Sometimes our charity is so mixed up with a 
mash of sentiment and sickly feeling that we do not 
know where we are, and what is vice, and what is 
virtue. But here are the brief stern words, " Go, and 
sin no more ; " but, at the same time, there is an 
infinite consideration for the criminal, not however as 
criminal, but as human being : I mean, not in respect 
of her criminality, but of her humanity. 

Now, an instance of our want of obedience to these 
Christian precepts has often struck me in the not 
visiting married women whose previous lives will not 
bear inspection. Whose will ? Not merely all Chris- 
tian people, but all civilised people, ought to set their 
faces against this excessive retrospection. 

But if ever there were an occasion on which men (I 
say men, but I mean more especially women) should 
be careful of scattering abroad unjust and severe 
sayings, it is in speaking of the frailties and delin- 
quencies of women. For it is one of those things 
where an unjust judgment, or the fear of one, breaks 
down the bridge behind the repentant ; and has often 



[ 86 ] 

made an error into a crime, and a single crime into a 
life of crime. 

A daughter has left her home, madly, ever so 
wickedly, if you like; but what are too often the 
demons tempting her onwards and preventing her 
return? The uncharitable speeches she has heard 
at home ; and the feelings he shares with most of us, 
that those we have lived with are the sharpest judges 
of our conduct. 

" Would you, then," exclaims some reader or hearer, 
" take back and receive with tenderness a daughter 
who had erred?" " Yes," I reply, "if she had been 
the most abandoned woman upon earth." 

A foolish family pride often adds to this uncharit- 
able way of feeling and speaking which I venture to 
reprehend. Our care is not that an evil and an un- 
fortunate thing has happened, but that our family has 
been disgraced, as we call it. Family vanity mixes 
up with and exasperates rigid virtue. Good heavens ! 
if we could but see where disgrace really lies, how 
often men would be ashamed of their riches and their 
honours ; and would discern that a bad temper, or an 
irritable disposition, was the greatest family disgrace 
that attached to them. 

A fear of the uncharitable speeches of others is the 
incentive in many courses of evil ; but it has a pecu- 



[ 8 7 ] 

liar effect in the one we are considering, as it occurs 
with most force just at the most critical period— when 
the victim of seduction is upon the point of falling 
into worse ways. Then it is that the uncharitable 
speeches she has heard on this subject in former days 
are so many goads to her, urging her along the down- 
ward path of evil. What a strange desperate notion 
it is of men, when they have erred, that things are at 
the worst, that nothing can be done to rescue them ; 
whereas Judas might have done something better than 
hang himself. 

But if we were all so kind, exclaims some rigid 
man, we should only encourage the evil we wish to 
subdue. He does not see that the first step in evil, 
and the abandonment to it as a course of life, proceed 
mostly from totally different motives, and are totally 
different things. One who dwelt on a secure height 
of peace and virtue, has fallen sadly and come down 
upon a table-land plagued with storms and liable to 
attacks of all kinds, and from which there is no ascent 
to the height again, but which is still at an immense 
distance above a certain abyss ; and we should be 
very cautious of doing anything that might make the 
foolish, dejected, pride-led person plunge hopelessly 
down into the abyss, in all probability to be lost for 
ever. 



[ 83 ] 

Before quitting the subject of the family, I must 
observe that, independently of any harshness of 
remark which a young person may have been accus- 
tomed to hear on matters connected with our present 
subject, the ill-management of parents must be taken 
into account as one of the most common causes of 
this sin. It is very sad to be obliged to say this, but 
the thing is true, and must be said. We must not, 
however, be too much discouraged at this, for the 
truth is, that to perform well any one of the great 
relations of life is an immense difficulty ; and when 
we see on a tombstone (those underneath can now 
say nothing to the contrary) that the defunct was a 
good husband, father, and son, we may conclude, if 
the words were truthful, that we are passing by the 
mortal remains of an Admirable Crichton in morality. 
And these relations are the more difficult, as they are 
not to be completely fulfilled by an abnegation of self 
— in other words, by a weak giving way upon all 
points j which is the ruin of many a person. I am not, 
however, going, in this particular case, to speak of the 
spoiling of children in the ordinary sense, but rather 
of the contrary defect ; which, strange to say, is quite 
as common, if not more so. Of necessity the ages of 
parents and children are separated by a considerable 
interval ; the particular relation is one full of awe and 



[ 8 9 ] 

authority; and the effect of that disparity of years, and 
of that natural awe and authority, may easily, by harsh 
or ungenial parents, be strained too far; other persons, 
and the world in general (not caring for the w r elfare 
of those who are no children of theirs, and besides 
using the just courtesy towards strangers), are often 
tolerant when parents are not so, which puts them to a 
great disadvantage ; small matters are often needlessly 
made subjects of daily comment and blame; and, in 
the end, it comes that home is sometimes anything 
but the happy place we choose to make it out in songs 
and fictions of various kinds. This, when it occurs, 
is a great pity. I am for making home very happy to 
children if it can be managed ; which, of course, is not 
to be done by weak compliances, and having no fixed 
rules. For no creature is happy, or even free, as 
Goethe has pointed out, except in the circuit of law. 
But laws and regulations having once been laid down, 
all within those bounds should be very kind at home. 
Now listen to the captious querulous scoldings that 
you may hear, even as you go along the streets, 
addressed by parents to children ; is it not manifest 
that in after-life there will be too much fear in the 
children's minds, and a belief that their father and 
mother never will sympathise with them as others 
even might — never will forgive them ? People of all 



[ 9° J 

classes, high and low, err in the same way; and, in 
looking about the world, I have sometimes thought 
that a thoroughly judicious father is one of the rarest 
creatures to be met with. 

Another cause of the frailty of women in the lower 
classes is in the comparative inelegance and unclean- 
liness of the men in their own class. It also arises 
from the fondness which all women have for merit, or 
what they suppose to be such, so that their love is apt 
to follow what is in any way distinguished : and this 
throws the women of any class cruelly open to the 
seductions of the men in the class above. For women 
are the real aristocrats ; and it is one of their greatest 
merits. Men's intellects, even some of the brightest, 
may occasionally be deceived by theories about 
equality and the like ; but women, who look at reality 
more, are rarely led away by nonsense of this kind. 

A cause of this sin of a very different kind, and 
applying to men, is a dreadful notion which has 
occasionally been adopted in these latter ages, 
namely, that it is a fine thing for a man to have 
gone through a great deal of vice — to have had 
much personal experience of wickedness; in short, 
that knowledge of vice is knowledge of the world, 
and that such knowledge of the world is eminently 



[ 9i J 

useful. That is not the way in which the greatest 
thinkers read the world ; they tell us that 

" The Gods approve the depth and not the tumult of the soul." 

Self-restraint is the grand thing, is the great tutor. 

But let us not talk insincerely even for a good end, 
as we may suppose ; and therefore do not let us deny 
that every evil carries w r ith it its teachings. An 
indulgence in dissipation teaches that dissipation is a 
fatal thing : and the man who learns that, very often 
does not learn anything more. But the excellence of 
particular men must greatly consist in their appre- 
ciating truths without having to pay the full experience 
for them ; so that in those respects they have a great 
start of other men. However, whether these theories 
of mine be true or not, ' there can be no doubt, I 
think, that indulgence of any kind is a thing which 
requires no theory to support it ; and I do not think 
it will be found that the men of consummate know- 
ledge of the world have gained that knowledge by 
vice ; but rather, as all other knowledge is gained, by 
toil and truth and love and self-restraint. And these 
four things do not abide with vice. 

Probably, too, a low view of humanity which vice 
gives, is in itself the greatest barrier to the highest 
knowledge. 



[ 92 ] 

One great source of the sin we are considering is 
the want of other thoughts. Here Puritanism comes 
in, as it has any time these two hundred years, to 
darken and deepen every mischief. The lower orders 
here are left with so little to think of but labour and 
vice. Now, any grand thought, great poetry, or noble 
song, is adverse to any abuse of the passions — even 
that which seems most concerned with the passions. 
For all that is great in idea, that insists upon men's 
attention, does so by an appeal, expressed or implied, 
to the infinite within him and around him. A man 
coming from a great representation of Macbeth is not 
in the humour for a low intrigue : and, in general, 
vice, especially of the kind we are considering, seizes 
hold not of the passionate so much as of the cold 
and vacant mind. 

On this account education and cultivation are to be 
looked to as potent remedies. The pleasures of the 
poor will be found to be moral safeguards rather than 
dangers. I smile sometimes when I think of the 
preacher in some remote country place imploring his 
hearers not to give way to backbiting, not to indulge 
in low sensuality, and not to busy themselves with 
other people's affairs. Meanwhile, what are they to 
do if they do not concern themselves with such 
things ? The heavy ploughboy who lounges along in 



[ 93 ] 

that listless manner has a mind which moves with 
a rapidity that bears no relation to that outward 
heaviness of his. That mind will be fed ; will con- 
sume all about it, like oxygen, if new thoughts and 
aspirations are not given it. The true strategy in 
attacking any vice, is by putting in a virtue to 
counteract it; in attacking any evil thought, by 
putting in a good thought to meet it. Thus a man 
is lifted into a higher state of being, and his old 
slough falls off him. 

With women, too, there is this especial danger, that 
fiction has hitherto been apt to tell them that they are 
nothing if they are not loved, and to fill their heads 
with the most untrue views of human life. Fiction 
must try and learn that she is only Truth with a mask 
on, so that she may speak truer things sometimes with 
less offence than Truth herself. Fiction must not 
represent love as always such a very fine thing, or as 
tending invariably to felicity, thus ignoring the trials 
of wedded life, and of affection generally — as if life 
were cut into two parts, one all shade, the other all 
light. We cannot school Love much ; but sometimes 
he might be induced to listen to reason. And at any 
rate, all would agree that much mischief may be done 
by unsound representations of human life in this very- 
important respect. 



t 94 ] 

But, our antagonist may say, these very fictions are 
amusement, and so far of use as furnishing some food 
for the mind. Yes : and I am not prepared to say 
that bad fictions, or almost anything, may not be 
better than nothing for the mind. But when con- 
tinuous cultivation is joined to education (which 
should be the object for statesmen and governing 
people of all kinds), people will not be supposed to 
be educated at the time of their nonage, and then left 
sight of and hold of for evermore, as far as regards 
their betters. But it will be seen that we are all so 
far children, or at least like children in some respects, 
throughout our lives, that the means of cultivation 
should be successively offered to us. 

It is difficult to see the drift of the foregoing words 
without an example. But what I mean is this — do 
not let us merely teach our poor young people to read 
and write and hear about all manner of arts, sciences, 
and productions, and then dropping these young 
people at the most dangerous age, provide no amuse- 
ments, enable them to carry on no pursuits, throw 
open no refinements of life to them, show them no 
parks, no gardens, and leave them to the pothouse 
and their sordid homes. 

Of course they will go wrong if we do. 



[ 95 ] 

III. The Remedies. 

As poverty came first among the causes, so to 
remove it must come first among the remedies. For 
this purpose let it be carefully observed what class of 
persons furnishes most victims to this sin. Try and 
mend the evils of that class. 

There will be two kinds of poverty, the one arising 
from general inadequacy of pay for employment that 
is pretty constant \ the other from uncertainty of 
employment at particular periods. Each requires to 
be dealt with differently. Frequently, though, they 
are found combined. 

To meet the first of these evils, more work must be 
found in the country, or some hands must be removed 
out of it. 

If emigration is to be adopted, it should be done 
in a different manner from any that has yet been 
attempted. 

But it seems as if something better than, or besides, 
emigration might be attempted. 

It may seem romantic, but I cannot help hoping 
that considerable investigation into prices may lead 
people to ascertain better what are fair wages, and 
that purchasers will not run madly after cheapness. 
There are everywhere just men who endeavour to 



[ 96 ] 

prevent the price of labourers' wages from falling 
below what they (the just men) think right. I have 
no doubt that this has an effect upon the whole 
labour-market, Christianity coming in to correct poli- 
tical economy. And so in other matters, I can con- 
ceive that private persons may generally become more 
anxious to put aside the evils of competition, and to 
give, as well as get, what is fair. 

But many things might be done to enable the wages 
of the poor to go further : and surely the glory of a 
state, and of the principal people in it, should be that 
men make the most of their labour in that state. 

Improvement of dwellings is one means.* 

Improvements in the representation and transfer of 
property are other great means to this end. 

It may seem that I have wandered far from the 
subject (the great sin of great cities) to questions of 

* Many a workwoman earns but *js. a week. She has to pay 
2s. or 3^. 6d. for one miserable apartment. Take her food at 
3s. or 2s. 6d., and there will remain is. a week to provide for 
clothing, sickness, charity, pleasure, and miscellaneous expendi- 
ture of all kinds. It is easy to see that any sudden mishap, such 
as sickness, must wreck such a person's means ; and also that 
where lies the chief room for making these means go further, is 
in the expenditure for lodgings, which now consumes about half 
her earnings. 



[ 97 ] 

currency and transfer of property. But I am per- 
suaded that there is the closest connection between 
subjects of this kind. The investment of savings is 
surely a question of the highest importance. But it 
is not that only which I mean. All manner of 
facilities should be given to the poor to become 
owners of property \ and wherever it could be 
managed., almost in spite of themselves, they should 
be made so : that is, by putting by portions of their 
wages when it is manifestly possible for this to be 
done, as in the case of domestic servants, or where 
the employed are living with, or in some measure 
under the guidance of, their employers. 

Much is being attempted by various benevolent 
persons in ways of this kind ; and the greatest atten- 
tion should be paid to these experiments. 

There are various things which the state could do 
in these matters ; but it would require a very wise and 
great government : and how is such a thing to be 
got? In the act of rising to power, men fail to obtain 
the knowledge and thought, and especially the pur- 
pose, to use power. There is some Eastern proverb, 
I think, about the meanest reptiles being found at the 
top of the highest towers. That, as applied to govern- 
ment, is ill-natured and utterly untrue. But people 



[ 98 ] 

who are swarming up a difficult ascent, or maintaining 
themselves with difficulty on a narrow ledge at a great 
height, are not employed exactly in the way to become 
great philosophers and reformers of mankind. Con- 
stitutional governments may be great blessings, but 
nobody can doubt that they have their price. There 
are, however, excellent men in high places amongst 
us at the present moment ; but timidity in attempting 
good is their portion, especially by any way that has 
not become thoroughly invincible in argument. I sup- 
pose that any man who should try some very generous 
thing as a statesman, and should fail, would be irre- 
trievably lost as a statesman. 

Meanwhile socialism is put forward to fill the void 
of government : and if government does not make 
exertion, we may yet have dire things to encounter. 
By government in the foregoing sentence I mean not 
only what we are in the habit of calling such, but all 
the governing and directing persons in a nation. 
Some of them are certainly making great efforts even 
now, and there lies our hope. 

But, supposing that the supply of workmen and 
workwomen could be better adapted to the demand ; 
and that means could be found to provide in some 
measure for neutralising the ill effects of the un- 



[ 99 ] 

certainty of employment (which two things, though 
very difficult, are still not beyond the range of human 
endeavour and accomplishment), there would yet 
remain many, very many, individual cases of utter 
and sudden distress and destitution amongst young 
women, which form the chief causes of their fall. 
Now, how are these to be averted ? 

There should be some better means of intercom- 
munication between rich and poor than there is at 
present. It seems as if the priests of all religions 
might perform that function, and that it should be 
considered one of their most important functions. It 
should be done, if possible, by some persons who 
come amongst the poor for other purposes than to 
relieve their poverty. At the same time, there might 
be an administrative officer of high place and power 
in the government who should be on the alert to 
suggest and promote good offices of the kind I have 
just alluded to. In reality the Minister of Edu- 
cation (if we had one) would be the real minister for 
destitution, as doing most to prevent it ; and various 
minor duties of a humane kind might devolve upon 
him. 

Any one acquainted with the annals of the poor 
will tell how familiar such words are to him as the 
following, and how true on inquiry he has found 



[ ioo ] 

them, — " Father fell ill of the fever " (the fever the 
poor girl may well say, for it is the fever which want 
of air and water, and working in stifling rooms, have 
brought upon many thousands of our workmen); 
" mother and I did pretty well in the straw-bonnet 
line while she lived ; but she died come April two 
years: and I've been 'most starved since then, and 
took to those ways." 

" You were fifteen when your mother died, you say, 
and you have no relations in this town ? " 

" There is my little brother, and he is in the work- 
house, and they let me go and see him on Mondays ; 
and there is my aunt, but she is a very poor woman 
and lives a long, long way off, and has a many children 
of her own." 

" You can read and write ? " 

" I can read a little." 

Now, of course, there are thousands of cases of 
this kind, in which one feels that the poor child has 
slipped out of the notice and care of people who 
would have been but too glad to aid her. I daresay 
neither mother nor child ever went to any church 
or chapel. And, in truth, let us be honest and 
confess that going to church in England is somewhat 
of an operation, especially to a poor, ill-clad person. 



[ ioi ] 

This system of pews and places, the want of open- 
ness of churches, the length of the service resulting 
from the admixture of services, the air of over-clean- 
liness and respectability which besets the place, and 
the difficulty of getting out when you like, are sad 
hindrances to the poor, the ill-dressed, the sick, the 
timid, the fastidious, the wicked, and the cultivated. 

And then, there is nobody into whose ear the poor 
girl can pour her troubles, except she comes as a beggar. 
This will be said to be a leaning on my part to the 
confessional. I cannot help that \ I must speak the 
truth that is in me. And I wish that many amongst 
us Protestants, who would, I doubt not, welcome the 
duty, could, without pledging ourselves to all manner 
of doctrines, but merely by a genial use of those 
common relations of life which bring us in daily 
contact with the poor, fulfil much of what is genuinely 
good in the functions of a confessor, and thus become 
brothers of mercy and brothers of charity to the poor. 

Meanwhile it is past melancholy, and verges on 
despair, to reflect upon what is going on amongst 
ministers of religion, who are often but too intent 
upon the fopperies of religion to have heart and 
time for the substantial work entrusted to them— 
immersed in heart-breaking trash from which no sect 
is free; for here are fopperies of discipline, there 



[ 102 ] 

fopperies of doctrine (still more dangerous as it seems 
to me). And yet there are these words resounding 
in their ears, "Pure religion and undefiled is this, To 
visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and 
to keep one's self unspotted from the world." And the 
word "world," as Coleridge has well explained, is this 
order of things, the order of things you are in. 
Clerical niceness and over-sanctity, for instance, and 
making more and longer sermons than there is any 
occasion for, and insisting upon needless points of 
doctrine, and making Christianity a stumbling-block 
to many, that, excellent clergyman (for there are 
numbers who deserve the name), that is your world, 
there lies your temptation to err. 

It has occurred to me that schoolmasters and 
schoolmistresses would form good means of com- 
munication with the poor : and so much the better 
from their agency being indirect as regards worldly 
affairs;* I mean that their first business is not to 
care for the physical well-being of their pupils. In 



* In this respect the opportunities of medical men are very 
great ; and surely the medical profession best emancipates itself 
from any tendency to materialism, and dignifies itself by entering 
upon the duties and the privileges of a teacher and consoler, 
when it performs, as it very often does, some of those offices of 
charity which ever lie just under its hands. 



[ io3 1 

after-life, they would be likely to know something 
of the ways and modes of life of their former pupils, 
and would be most valuable auxiliaries to landlords, 
master-manufacturers, to masters in general, and to 
all who are anxious to improve the condition of those 
under them. 

While talking of the schoolmaster, we must not 
omit to consider the immense importance, in its bear- 
ing on our subject, of a better education for women — 
especially for women of what are called the middling 
classes — an education which should develop in them 
the qualities and powers which they are most deficient 
in, such as stern reasoning; which is at the foundation 
of justice, and which should free them from that 
absurd timidity of mind more than of body which 
prevents their seeing things as they are, and makes 
them, and consequently men, the victims of conven- 
tionality. 

This thing, conventionality, is a great enemy to 
those who would war against the sin we are consider- 
ing. Hypocrisy is said to be the homage which vice 
pays to virtue; conventionality is the adoration which 
both vice and virtue offer up to worldliness. See its 
ill effects in this particular case. The discussion of 
our subject is almost beyond the pale of conven- 



[ io 4 ] 

tionality. Years ago, an old college friend defined 
this present writer as a man who could say the most 
audacious things with the least offence. I hope my 
friend was right, for, indeed, in discussing this subject 
I need all that power now. Conventionality stiffens 
up the whole figure, and sets the eyes in the fixed 
direction it pleases, so that men and women can pass 
through the streets ignoring the greatest horrors which 
surround them. And consider what a dangerous 
thing it is, when it is once presumed that there is any 
class with whom we can have no sympathy; that there 
are any beings of a different kind from the rest of us. 
It is not for us, collections of dust, to feel contempt. 
In a future life we may have such a survey as may 
justify contempt, but then we should have too much 
love to feel it. But, indeed, in most cases, it is not 
contempt, but conventionality, that induces us to pass 
by and ignore what it is not consistent with good taste 
to know anything about. 

But there is another fertile mode in which conven- 
tionality works in increasing the great sin of great 
cities. And that is by rendering all manner of imagi- 
nary wants real wants, and thus helping to enslave 
men and women. False shame has often, I doubt 
not, led to the worst consequences — the shame, for 
instance, arising from not having the clothes of a kind 



[ los ] 

imagined to be fit for a particular station; and so, 
people submit to a vice to satisfy a foible. 

A class of persons who are found to furnish great 
numbers of the victims to the sin we are considering 
is that of domestic servants. This leads to a suspi- 
cion that there are peculiar temptations, weaknesses, 
errors, and mismanagement incident to that class. 
Their education, to begin with, is wretchedly defective. 
But besides that, they are particularly liable to the 
slavery of conventionality : indeed, there are few 
people more subdued by weak notions of what it is 
correct for them to have, and to be, and to do : which 
often ends in anything but a correspondence of the 
reality of their condition with their ideal. It must be 
remembered, too, that they undergo, in an especial 
degree, the temptation of being brought near to a class 
superior to theirs in breeding and niceness ; and, con- 
sequently, that they are very liable to be discontented 
with their own. 

But great improvement might be made in the man- 
agement of servants. Their efforts to save money 
should be directed and aided. New means might 
be invented for that purpose, It might be much 
more generally arranged than it is, both in house- 
holds and in other establishments, that a fund should 



L "6 ] 

be formed out of which those female servants who 
remained a certain time should have a sum of 
money, in fact what in official life is called " retired 
allowances." 

Then, of course, masters and mistresses should 
recognise the fact, instead of needlessly discouraging 
it, that men and women love one another in all ranks 
— that Mary, if a pleasant or comely girl, is pretty 
nearly sure at some time or other to have a lover. 
Let the master and mistress be aware of that fact, and 
treat it as an open question which may be discussed 
sometimes with advantage to all parties. 

Instead of such conduct, one hears sometimes that 
such maxims are laid down as that " no followers are 
allowed." What does a lady mean who lays down 
such a law in her household ? Perhaps she subscribes 
to some abolition society ; which is a good thing in 
as far as it cultivates her kindly feelings towards an 
injured race. But does she know that, by this law of 
hers, as applied to her own household, she is imitating, 
in a humble way, one of the worst things connected 
with slavery? 

As this prohibition extends to near relations as well 
as to lovers, if obeyed it renders the position of a 
servant-girl still more perilous as more isolated ; and, 
if disobeyed, it is a fertile source of the habit of con- 



[ I0 7 ] 

cealment, one of the worst to which all persons in a 
subordinate situation are prone. 

For my own part, I could not bear to live with 
servants who were to see none of their friends and 
relations : I should feel I was keeping a prison, and 
not ruling a household. 

Amongst the principal remedies must be reckoned, 
or at least hoped for, an improvement in men as 
regards this sin. To hope for such an improvement 
will be looked upon as chimerical by some persons, 
and the notion of introducing great moral remedies 
for the evil in question as wholly romantic. It seems 
impossible : every new and great thing does, till it is 
done ; and then the only wonder is, that it was not 
done long ago. 

Oh that there were more love in the world, and 
then these things that we deplore could not be. One 
would think that the man who had once loved any 
woman, would have some tenderness for all. And 
love implies an infinite respect. All that was said or 
done by Chivalry of old, or sung by Troubadours, but 
shadows forth the feeling which is in the heart of any 
one who loves. Love, like the opening of the heavens 
to the Saints, shows for a moment, even to the dullest 
man, the possibilities of the human race. He has 



[ io8 ] 

faith, hope, and charity for another being, perhaps 
but a creation of his imagination : still it is a great 
advance for a man to be profoundly loving even 
in his imaginations. What Shelley makes Apollo 
exclaim, Love might well say too : — 

" I am the eye with which the Universe 
Beholds itself and knows itself divine ; 
All harmony of instrument or verse, 

All prophecy, all medicine are mine, 
All light of art or nature ; — to my song 
Victory and praise in their own right belong. " 

Indeed, love is a thing so deep and so beautiful, 
that each man feels that nothing but conceits and 
pretty words have been said about it by other men. 

And then to come down from this, and to dishonour 
the image of the thing so loved. No man could do 
so while the memory of love was in his mind. And 
indeed, even without these recollections, we might 
hope that, on the contemplation of so much ruin ? 
and the consideration of the exquisite beauty of the 
thing spoiled, there would sometimes come upon the 
heart of a man a pity so deep as to protect him from 
this sin as much as aversion itself could do. And we 
may imagine that even men of outrageous dissipation, 
but who have still left some greatness and fineness of 
mind (like Mirabeau, for example), will have a horror 
of the sin we are condemning, though very sinful 



[ I0 9 ] 

in other respects. And certainly the disgrace to 
humanity that there is in indiscriminate prostitution 
is appalling : and, like constrained marriage for 
money, it has something more repulsive about it than 
is to be met with in things that may be essentially 
more wicked. 

I hope I am not uncharitable in saying this ; but 
anybody who thinks so must remember that what 
is alluded to by me is the worst form of the sin in 
question ; as, in fact, it disgraces the streets of our 
principal cities — in utter lovelessness and mercenary 
recklessness. 

I said above, the " exquisite beauty of the thing 
spoiled." And, in truth, how beautiful a thing is 
youth — beautiful in an animal. In contemplating it, 
the world seems young again for us. Each young 
thing seems born to new hopes. Parents feel this for 
their children, hoping that something will happen to 
them quite different from what happened to them- 
selves. They would hardly take all the pains they do 
with these young creatures, if they could believe that 
the young people were only to grow up into middle- 
aged men and women with the usual cares and 
troubles descending upon them like a securely 
entailed inheritance. There is something fanciful in 



[ »o ] 

all this, and in reality a grown-up person is a much 
more valuable and worthy creature than most young 
ones ; but still anything that blights the young must 
ever be most repugnant to humanity. 

I had now read over all that I had put down in 
writing; and, as I laid aside the manuscript, I felt 
how sadly it fell short of what I had thought to say 
on this subject. I suppose, however, that even when 
they are good, a man's words seem poor to himself, 
for the workman is too familiar with the wrong side of 
all his workmanship. Moreover, much must always 
lie in the ear of the hearer. We say enough to set 
alight the hidden trains of thought which abide in the 
recesses of men's hearts, unknown to them ; and they 
are startled into thinking for themselves. After all, 
it is not often so requisite for a writer to make things 
logically clear to men, as to put them into the 
mood he wishes to have them in. I suppose the 
snake-charmer and the horse-whisperer have some 
such scheme. 

But, said I, as I threw some stones into a pool 
which was near me in a partial clearing of the wood, 
I would go on with this work if I knew that all my 
efforts would make no more stir than these pebbles in 
that pool. And then I proceeded to think of the 



[ "I ] 

topics which are yet before me, full of doubt and 
difficulty. I should like to have some talk with 
Ellesmere, I exclaimed; I fear he will have no 
sympathy with me, and an utter disbelief in anybody 
doing any good in this matter. But he is a shrewd 
man of the world, and he speaks out fearlessly. It 
would be well to hear his remarks beforehand, 
while they may yet be of use to me. I certainly will 
consult him. 

I stept out of the wood into the beaten road, a 
change which I always feel to be like that which 
occurs in the mind of a man who, having been wrapt 
in some romance of his own, suddenly disengages 
himself from it and talks with his fellows upon the 
ordinary topics of the day, affecting a shrewd care 
about the price of corn and the state of our foreign 
relations. 

By the time I reached Worth-Ashton I had left 
all forest thoughts well behind me, and was quite at 
home on the broad beaten road of commonplace 
affairs. 



CHAPTER VII. 

I HAVE read the foregoing notes to Ellesmere, 
whom I asked to come here the first lawyer's 
holiday that he could make. During the reading, 
which was in my study, he said nothing, but seemed, 
as I thought, unusually grave and attentive. When 
it was finished, he proposed that we should walk 
out upon the downs. Still he made no remark, 
but strolled on moodily, until I said to him, " I am 
afraid, Ellesmere, you have some heavy brief which 
sits upon your mind just now; or, perhaps, I have 
somewhat wearied you in reading so much to you 
upon a subject about which you probably do not care 
much." " I care more than you do," he replied — 
"forgive my abruptness, Milverton, but what I say 
is true. To show you why I do care would be to 
tell you a long story, and to betray to you that 
which I had never intended to tell mortal man. 

"But, if you care to hear it, I will tell you; it 
bears closely upon some of your views, and may 
modify them in some way. I can talk to you on 



[ "3 ] 

such a theme better than to almost any man, for it 
is like talking to a philosophic system ; and yet there 
is still some humanity left in you, so that one may 
hope for a little sympathy now and then without 
having too much, or being afflicted with pity and 
wonder and foolish exclamations of any kind." I did 
not interrupt him to defend myself, being too anxious 
to hear what he had to say. Besides I saw this attack 
upon me was partly an excuse to himself for telling 
me something which he hardly meant to tell. He 
threw himself down upon the turf, and, after a few 
minutes' silence, thus began : — 

Well, I was once upon my travels staying for a few 
days in a German town, not a very obscure or a very 
renowned one; but indeed the whereabouts is a 
very unimportant matter, and I do not particularise 
any of the minute circumstances of my story, because 
I do not wish hereafter to be reminded of them. I 
remember it was on a Sunday, and the day was fine. 
I remember, too, I went to church, to a Protestant 
church, where I did not understand much of what I 
heard, but liked what I did. They sang psalms, such 
as I fancy Luther would have approved of; and I 
thought it would be a serious thing for a hostile army 
to meet a body of men who had been thus singing. 



[ H4 J 

Grand music, such as you, for instance, would like 
better, is a good thing too. Our cathedrals might 
have combined both. I do not know why I tell you 
all this, for it does not immediately concern my story, 
but I suppose it is because I do not like to approach 
it too quickly, and I must linger on the details of a 
day which is so deeply imprinted upon my memory. 
I remember well the sermon, or rather the bits of 
it which I understood, and out of which I made my 
sermon for myself, That pathetic word verlore?i (lost) 
occurred many times. Then there was a great deal 
about the cares of this life occupying so much time, 
and then about the pleasures, or the thoughts of 
misspent youth being impressed upon manhood, to 
the perennial detriment of the character. I made 
out, or fancied I did, that it was a sermon showing 
how short a time was given to spiritual life. I dare 
say it was a very commonplace sermon that I made 
of it ; but somehow, the sermons we preach to our- 
selves, in which, by the way, we can be sure of taking 
the most apt illustrations from the store of our own 
follies, are always interesting. And when the good 
preacher, a most benign and apostolic-looking man, 
pronounced the benediction, I felt as if I had been 
hearing some friendly searching words which might 
well be laid to heart. After the sermon was over, 



t 115 ] 

I strolled about. The day moved on, and towards 
evening time, I went with the stream of the towns- 
people, gentle and simple, to some public gardens 
which lay outside the town and were joined to it by 
beautiful walks. People speak of the sadness of 
being in a crowd and knowing no one. There is 
something pleasurable in it too. I wandered amongst 
the various groups of quiet, decorous, beer-imbibing 
Germans, who, in family-parties, had come out to 
these gardens to drink their beer, smoke their pipes. 
and hear some music. In those unfortunate regions 
they have not made a ghastly idol of the Sunday. 

At last I sat down at a table where a young girl 
and a middle-aged woman, who carried a baby, were 
refreshing themselves with some very thin potation. 
They looked poor decent people. I soon entered 
into conversation with them, and therefore did not 
leave it long a matter of doubt that I was an English- 
man. I perceived that something was wrong with my 
friends, although I could not comprehend what it was. 
I could see that the girl could hardly restrain herself 
from bursting into tears ; and there was something 
quite comical in the delight she expressed at some 
feats on the tight-rope, which she would insist upon 
my looking at, and her then, in a minute afterwards, 
returning to her quiet distress and anxious deplorable 



[ "6 ] 

countenance. A proud English girl would have kept 
all her misery under due control, especially in a public 
place ; but these Germans are a more simple natural 
people. 

Having by degrees established some relations be- 
tween the party and myself by ordering some coffee 
and handing it round, and then letting the baby play 
with my watch, I asked what it was that ailed the girl. 
The girl turned round and poured out a torrent of 
eloquence, which, however, considerably exceeding the 
pace at which any foreign language enters into my 
apprehension, was totally lost upon me ; except that 
I perceived she had some complaint against somebody, 
and that she had a noble open countenance which, 
from long experience of the witness-box, I felt was 
telling me an unusual proportion of truth. One part 
of the discourse I perceived very clearly to be about 
money, and as she touched her gown (which was very 
neat and nice), it had something to do with the price 
of the said gown. 

We then talked of England, whereupon she asked 
me to take her with me as a servant. This abrupt 
speech might astonish some persons ; but not those 
who have travelled much. I dare say the same request 
has often been made to you, Milverton. 

Milverton. Oh, yes. They fancy this is an 



[ "7 ] 

earthly paradise for getting money, bounded by a 
continual fog. 

Ettesmere. She then questioned me much as to the 
distance of England from where we were. And as I 
saw she was in a desperate mood, and might attempt 
some desperate adventure, I took care to explain to 
her the distance and the difficulties of the journey. 
Besides which, I contrived, putting the severest 
pressure on my stock of German, to convey to her 
that London was rather an extensive town, containing 
two millions of people, and that it was not exactly the 
place for an unfriended young girl to be wandering 
about. 

" The same thing everywhere, everywhere," she ex- 
claimed, in a tone of mournful reproach which I felt 
was levelled at our unchivalrous sex in general. 

I felt interested to understand her story, and 
beginning to question her in detail again, ascertained 
so far, that she was or had been a servant, that she 
had been accustomed to take charge of children, 
having had eleven under her charge, that the wages 
were most wretched, which they certainly were ; but 
still, it was not that or any of the ordinary kind of 
grievances which was now distressing her. Whenever 
we came to the gist of the discourse, she became 
more emphatic and I more stupid. At last I 



[ ti8 1 

bethought me that if she were to write out what she 
had to say, I could then understand it well enough. 
This was a bright idea, and one which I was able to 
convey to her. She was to bring me the writing on 
the ensuing morning in the great square. And having 
come to this agreement we parted ; I taking care, 
with lawyer-like caution, to tell her that I did not 
know whether I could be of any use to her, with other 
discouraging expressions. 

The next morning, duly fortified with my pocket 
dictionary, I sat myself down to read her statement 
Ah, how clearly the whole scene is before me. It 
was on a broad bench, close to a hackney-coach 
stand, within sight of the palace. She looked over 
me and read aloud ; and when I could not make out 
a word, we paused, and the dictionary was put in 
requisition. The nearest hackney-coachman lying 
back on his box. threw now and then an amused 
glance at the proceeding. Hers was a simple 
touching story, touchingly told. I now know every 
word, every letter of it ; but then it was very hard for 
me to comprehend. 

It began by giving her birth, parentage, and educa- 
tion. She was born of poor parents in the country, a 
few miles out of the town. She was now an orphan. 
She had come into service in the town. Her master 



[ "9 ] 

had endeavoured to seduce her; but she had 
succeeded in giving some notion of her miserable 
position to a middle-aged man, and friend of her 
family, who had taken an interest in her, and 
promised to receive her into his service. Then she 
gave warning to her mistress, who could not imagine 
the cause, and was displeased at her leaving. She 
could not tell her mistress for fear of vexing 
her. 

The character given by the mistress (which I saw) 
went well with this statement, as it was the praise of a 
person displeased. 

The new master that was to be, had told her where 
to go to (the lodgings where she was now staying), 
and ordered her to get decent clothes before coming 
into his service. He did not live in that town. She 
left her place accordingly, provided herself with the 
necessary things, and awaited his orders. Meanwhile 
his plans were changed. He had just married, was 
probably about to travel, and wrote that he could 
not take her in. I am not sure that there was any 
deliberate wrong-doing or treachery on his part — 
merely a wicked carelessness ; forgetting what a thing 
it is for a poor girl to be out of place, and not 
knowing that she had taken the step, perhaps, at the 
time he wrote. She had written again, and had 



[ I2 ° ] 

received no answer. She was left in debt and in the 
utmost distress. 

This is the substance of what I eventually got out 
by cross-examination. She had been out into the 
suburbs in search of a place when I met her yester- 
day. The woman with the child, who was no rela- 
tion, had reiterated to me there that she was a good 
girl and in great distress. 

The usual wicked easy way of getting out of her 
difficulties had been pressed upon her — Ich mag das 
Geld nicht auf eine schlechie Art bekommen, sonstwurde 
ich es in kurzer Zeit haben; but she trusted that " the 
dear God would never permit this, so she put her trust 
in Him." Ich hoffe aber, der liebe Gott wird das nicht 
zugeben, denn ich verlasse mich auf Ihn, 

I remember that, occasionally, while we were spell- 
ing over what she had written, her large beautiful 
hand (do not smile, Milverton, a hand may be most 
beautiful and yet large) rested on the page. There 
was a deep scar upon it, the mark of a burn, that 
told of some household mishap. I have seen many 
beautiful hands before and after, but none so beau- 
tiful to me. 

At last we got through the writing and paused. 
"This is a bad business," I exclaimed; and then I 
fell into a reverie, not upon her particular case so 



[ "I ] 

much as upon the misery that there is in the world. 
At last I looked up and felt quite remorseful at the 
wistful agonised expression of the girl, whom I had 
been keeping in suspense all this time while indulging 
my own thoughts. She evidently thought (you know 
the extremely careless ill-dressed figure I generally am) 
that to assist her was quite out of my power. And 
so it was at the moment, for I had not the requisite 
silver about me. Indeed why should the rich carry 
any money about with them, when they have always 
the poor to borrow it from ? However, I had some 
silver in my pocket and gave her that, promising to 
bring the rest. Her ecstasy was unbounded : of 
course she began to cry (no woman is above that) ; 
though seeing my excessive dislike to that proceeding, 
she did the best to suppress it, only indulging in an 
occasional sob. Her first idea was what she could 
do for the money. She would work for any time. 
We had found out that writing was better than talk- 
ing ; and here are her very words (I always carry them 
about with me), " Was sollich Ihnen filr einen Dienst 
dafilr thun V " What shall I do for you in the way 
of any service for this ? " " Nothing," I replied, " but 
only to be a good girl." 

One thing I have omitted to tell you : but I may as 



[ I22 ] 

well tell it. It is no matter now. While we were 
reading over the letter, I happened to ask her whether 
she had a lover. I had hardly asked the question 
before I would have given anything to have been 
able to recall it, as we sometimes do in Court when 
a question is objected to. Her simple answer came 
crushing into my ears, " Yes, but a poor man and far 
away." She thought my object in asking was to 
ascertain whether there was any help to be got from 
any other quarter : this she answered, so like her 
sensible self, without any bridling-up or nonsense of 
any kind — a simple answer to a simple question. 
But the words went down like a weight into my heart, 
which has never been quite lifted off again. In short, 
Milverton, I loved. 

What should possess me to-day to tell you this wild 
story I know not. I know you really care for nothing 
but great interests and great causes, as you call them. 
With intense mad love for any one human being you 
cannot sympathise. I always noted the same in you 
from your boyhood upwards. Talk to you of a body of 
men — of a class — of a million, for instance, of people 
suffering anything, and you are immediately interested. 
But for any one of us you care nothing. I see through 
you, and always have. But I like you. Do not answer 
me, you know it is true. 



[ "3 ] 

I did not answer him ; though knowing what he 
said to be most untrue, and yet to have just that dash 
of plausibility in it which makes injustice so hard to 
unravel. He proceeded. I saw Gretchen (that was 
her name) more than once again, and had a great 
deal of talk with her, finding my first impressions 
amply verified ; and I still think her one of the best 
intellects, and most beautiful natures, I have ever 
seen. I had in my pocket a very learned letter from 
one of the German Professors of law to whom I had 
delivered a letter of introduction on passing through 
his town, on some points of jurisprudence, referring to 
Savigny's work. The parts of this which had been 
unintelligible I made her construe to me; some of it 
was quite independent of technicalities, but merely 
required hard thinking and clear explanation. The 
girl with my help made it all out. But of course it 
was not of such themes that she liked to talk ; for 
women love personal talk, and their care is to know, 
not what men think about, but what they feel. One 
speech of hers dwells in my mind. " You must be 
very happy at home," she said. I thought of my 
mouldy chambers and the kind of life I lead, and 
replied with an irony I could not check, < ; very : " and 
so satisfied her gentle questionings. 

I did not delay my departure longer than I had at 



[ »4 ] 

first intended ; for in these cases when you have done 
any good, it is well to be sure you do not spoil it in 
any way. She would not have any more money than 
a trifling sum that was a little more than sufficient to 
pay off the debts already due, and they amounted to 
the very same sum she had originally mentioned to 
me in the gardens. We parted. Before parting she 
begged me to tell her my name : then timidly she 
kissed my hand ; and, bursting into tears, threw her 
hood over her face and hurried away a little distance. 
Afterwards I saw her turn to watch the departure of 
the huge diligence in which I had ensconced myself. 

Milverton. And you never saw her any more ? 

Ellesmere. Once more. Not being a philosopher 
or a philanthropist, I do not easily forget those I once 
care for. I studied how to protect her in every way. 
I mastered the politics of that German town ; and 
learnt all the intricacies of the little Court there. I 
ascertained everything respecting our relations with 
it, and who amongst our diplomatists was desirous of 
the residence there, when there should be a change. 
I busied myself more in politics than I had done ; 

and I believe I must own that my speech on the 

intervention, which had its merits and cost me great 
labour, was spoken for Gretchen. Of course, I need 
hardly say that I spoke only what I most sincerely 



[ »s ] 

thought; but I should probably have let politics 
alone but for her sake. At last there was an oppor- 
tunity of a new appointment being made of a Minister 
to that German Court ; and the man who wished for 
it, and whose just claims I had aided as I best could, 
obtained it. His wife, Lady R., one of those brilliant 
women of the world who are often more amiable than 
we give them credit for being, had long noticed the 
care with which I had cultivated her society. She 
imagined it was for one of her beautiful daughters, 
and did not look unkindly upon me. Before she 

went to reside at I undeceived her, telling her 

the whole truth (the best thing in such a case) and 
binding her to secrecy. She promised to look out for 
Gretchen, and to take her into her household. I 
told Lady R. that Gretchen had a lover, and said, 
that if anything could be done for him, without lifting 
him out of his rank, it should be. Neither would I 
have Gretchen made anything different from what 
she was. I could have given her money by handfuls ; 
but that is not the way to serve people. At the same 
time I implored Lady R. to let me know imme- 
diately in case anything should ever occur to break 
off the marriage. 

Milverton. • And you would have put in your suit 
and married this girl ? 



[ "6 3 

Ellesmere. There was but little chance, I fear; 
but you may be sure no opportunity would have 
escaped me. As for the world, I am one of the 
few persons who really care but little for it The 
hissing of collected Europe, provided I knew the 
hissers could not touch me, would be a grateful sound 
rather than the reverse — that is, if heard at a reason- 
able distance. 

Well, but I told you I saw Gretchen once more. 
Yes, once more. You may remember that some time 
ago, I had a very severe illness, and was not able to 
attend the Courts on an occasion when I was much 
wanted. This appeared in the newspapers of the 
day, and so, I conjecture, came to the knowledge of 
Gretchen ; who, in her quiet indefatigable way, had 
learned English, and was a great student, as I after- 
wards heard, of English newspapers. She had also 
contrived to learn more about my life than I chose 
to tell her when I answered her question about 
my being happy; and the poor girl had formed 
juster notions of the joyousness and comfort of a 
lawyer's chambers in London. She begged for 
leave of absence to s visit a sick friend : Lady R. 
conjectured, I believe, where she was going, and 
consented. 

A few days afterwards there was a knock at my 



[ I2 7 ] 

door (I was still very ill and unable to leave my 
sitting-room, but solacing life as best I could by the 
study of a great pedigree-case), when my clerk, with 
an anxious and ashamed countenance, put his head 
in, made one of these queer faces which he does 
when he thinks a great bore is washing to see me and 
that I had better say "No," and exclaimed, "A young 
woman from Germany, sir, wants to see you." I 
knew, instinctively, who it was, but had the presence 
of mind to make a gesture signifying I would not see 
her (for I could not have spoken), and I was afraid in 
my present state of weakness I should betray myself 
in some way, if I were to see her unprepared. While 
the parleying was going on in the passage, I collected 
myself sufficiently to ring for my clerk and tell him, 
he might appoint the young woman to come in the 
afternoon. By that time I had reflected upon my 
part, and was somewhat of myself again. She came : 
I scolded and protested ; she did nothing in reply, but 
look at me, and say how thin I w 7 as \ and there was 
no resisting the quiet, affectionate, discreet way in 
which she installed herself every day for some hours 
as head nurse. Even my old laundress relaxed so 
far as to say that Gradgin (for that was what she 
called her) was a good girl and not hoity-toity : and 
my clerk, Peter, a very cantankerous fellow, was heard 



[ «8 ] 

to remark, that for his part he did not like young 
women much, but Miss Gradgin was better than 
most, and certainly his master did somehow eat more 
of anything made by her than by anybody else, and 
never threatened now to throw the chicken-broth 
he brought in at his head. 

I jest at these things, Milverton : and in truth 
what remains for us often in this world but to jest ? 
Which of the Queens was it, by the way, who on the 
scaffold played with the sharpness of the axe, and 
said something droll about her little neck ? Well, I 
jest; but this visit of Gretchen's was a very severe 
trial to me. It is a common trial though, I daresay. 
No doubt many a person dotes upon or adores some 
one else, who is, happily, as unconscious of the 
doting or adoration as Ram Dass, or any other 
heathen deity, of the fanatic love of his worshippers. 
To the loving person, however, it is like walking over 
hot iron with no priest-anointed feet, and yet with 
unmoved countenance, not even allowed to look 
stoical. I could not resist listening sometimes to 
Gretchen's wise, innocent, pleasant talk about all the 
new things she was seeing ; and perhaps if I had not 
kept carefully before me the claims of the absent 
peasant lover, some day when she was moving about 
me like sunlight in the room, I might in some 



[ I2 9 ] 

moment of frenzy, which I should never have forgiven 
myself, have thrown myself at her feet and asked her 
to take these dingy chambers and my faded self and 
all my belongings under her permanent control. But 
wiser, sterner, juster thoughts prevailed. 

I got better, and it was time for Gretchen to be 
thinking of going. Of course no foreigner can leave 
London without seeing the Thames Tunnel ; and I 
observed that the jnorose Peter, though in general 
very contemptuous of sight-seeing and sight-seers, 
was wonderfully ready to escort Gretchen to see the 
Tunnel, which I thought a great triumph on her part. 
I spared myself the anguish of parting with her : a 
case came on rather unexpectedly in a distant part of 
the country, and I was sent for " special," as we say. 
Kings and tetrarchs might have quarrelled for what I 
cared ; I would not have meddled in their feuds to 
lose one hour of Gretchen's sweet companionship, if I 
might have had it heartily and fairly ; but, as things 
were, I thought this a famous opportunity for making 
my escape without a parting. And so I started sud- 
denly for the North, bidding Gretchen adieu by letter, 
expressing all my gratitude for her attention, and 
being able to rule and correct my expressions as it 
seemed good to me. Before I returned she had left, 
taking leave of me in a fond kind letter, in which she 



[ 13° ] 

blamed me much for being so regardless of my health, 
and added a few words about my evident anxiety to 
get rid of her, which sounded to me like some wild 
strain of irony. Ever since, my chambers have seemed 
to me very different from what they were before : I 
would not quit them for a palace. One or two new 
articles of furniture were bought by Gretchen, who 
effected a kind of quiet revolution in my dusky abode. 
These are my household gods. 

One of her alterations I must tell you. You know 
my love for light and warmth ; like that of an Asiatic 
long exiled in a Northern country, whose calenture is 
not of green fields, but of sufficient heat and light 
once more to bathe in. Well, Gretchen soon found 
out my likings ; and this was one of her plans to 
gratify me and make me well. My principal room 
has a window to the south-west, a bay-window, or 
rather a window in a bayed recess. After ascertain- 
ing, as well as she could, from Peter what were the 
limits throughout the year of the sun's appearance on 
the walls of this recess, on a sudden one morning 
Gretchen came in with a workman and two antique 
looking-glasses of the proper size, which (a present of 
her own, and taxing her resources highly) she fixed 
one on each side of the recess, from whence they have 
ever since thrown a reflected light into the room, 



[ W ] 

which makes it feel at times uncomfortable, like an 
ill-dressed person in a great company. It is a trifling 
thing to mention to you, but very characteristic of 
her. 

I have said nothing to you, Milverton, which can 
describe herself; and, indeed, I always look upon all 
descriptions of women, in books and elsewhere, as 
having something mean, poor, and sensuous about 
them. I may tell you that she always, from the first 
time I saw her, reminded me a little of the bust of 
Cicero. She had the same delicate critical look, 
though she was what you would call a great large 
girl. She might have been a daughter of his if he 
had married, what he would have called, a bar- 
barian German woman. In nature, she has often 
recalled to me Jeannie Deans, only that she has 
more tenderness. She would have spoken falsely 
(I am sorry to say) for Efne ; and would have died 
of it. 

Lady R., when she was over here some little time 
ago, said to me, to comfort me, I suppose, that though 
Gretchen was a sweet girl, she did not quite see what 
there was in her to make her so attractive to a man 
like me. But these women do not always exactly 
understand one another, or appreciate what makes 
them dear to particular men. She added, " But still I 



[ <3* ] 

do not know how it was Gretchen became the "great 
authority in our household : they all referred to her 
about everything, and she did a good deal of their 
work." In fact, she was the personification of 
common sense ; only that what we mean by common 
sense is apt to be hard, overwise, and disagreeable : 
hers was the common sense of a romantic person, and 
of one who had great perception of the humorous. I 
think I hear her low, long-continued dimpling laugh 
as I used to put forth some of my odd theories 
about men and things, to hear what she would 
say. And she generally did say something fully 
to the purpose. But action was her forte. There 
was a noiseless, soft activity about her like that of 
light. 

Milverton. You speak of her as if she were dead. 
Is it so ? 

Ellesmere. No : much the same thing — married. 
There was an opportunity for advancing her lover. It 
was done, not without my knowledge. She had by 
this time saved some money. They were married six 
months ago. I sent the wedding gown. Do not let 
us talk any more about it. I tell it you to show you 
how deeply I care about your subject ; for sometimes 
I think with terror, as I go along the streets, that but 
for my providential interference, Gretchen might have 



[ *33 ] 

been like one of those tawdry girls who pass by me. 
Yes, she might. I observed that she had a pure 
horror of debt : and I do not know that circum- 
stances might not have been too strong for her 
virtue. For by nature virtuous, if ever woman was, 
she was. 

Ellesmere was silent for a few 7 minutes. Then he 
said, " Let us have no more of this talk to-day, or, 
indeed, at any time, unless I should begin the subject. 
One of the greatest drawbacks upon making any con- 
fidence is that, as regards that topic, you have then 
lost the royal privilege of beginning the discourse 
about yourself, and another can begin to speak to 
you, or to think (and you know that he is thinking), 
about the matter, when you do not wish to be so 
much as thought of by any one." 

He then began to speak about some chemical ex- 
periments which he wanted me to try ; and from that 
went on to talk about infusoria, wishing me to under- 
take some microscopical investigations to confirm, or 
disprove, a certain theory of his ; adding, by w r ay of 
inducement, " These lower forms and orders of life 
ought, you know, to be very interesting to people in 
the country, who themselves, in comparison with us, 
the inhabitants of towns, can only, by courtesy, and 
for want of more precise and accurate language, be 



[ *34 ] 

said to live. In fact, their existence is entirely mollus- 
cous." Thus, in his usual jeering way, he concluded 
a walk which left me with matter for meditation for 
many a solitary ramble over the downs, which we then 
traversed on our way homewards. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

IT is not often in the course of our lives, especially 
after we have passed our nonage, that we can 
reckon upon being thoroughly undisturbed and free 
to think of what we like for a given time. It is one 
of the advantages of travelling in a carriage alone, 
that it affords an admirable opportunity for thinking. 
The trees, the houses, the farm-yards, the woods flit 
by, and form a sort of silent chorus from the outward 
world. There is a sense of power in overcoming 
distance at no expense of muscular exertion of one's 
own, which is not without an elevating and inspiriting 
influence upon the thoughts. The first thing, how- 
ever, is, that we are pretty nearly sure of being 
undisturbed. The noise around us is a measured 
one, and is accounted for; it does not, therefore, 
fret the most nervous person. Dr Johnson thought 
that travelling in a post-chaise with a pretty woman 
was one of the highest delights in life. Very 
ungallantly I venture to suggest that the pretty 
woman had better be omitted. She will talk some- 



[ n(> ] 

times, and break the whole charm, thus preventing 
you even from thinking about her. 

Having such notions of the high merits apper- 
taining to the inside of a post-chaise in motion • in 
fact, considering it a place which, for the research 
of truth, may be put in competition with the groves 
of Academus, it was with some pleasure that I found 
myself alone in the carriage which had conveyed 
Ellesmere to the neighbouring railway station on his 
return to town. It was the first time since our walk 
to the downs that I had had to myself, and been able 
to think over all that he had then told me. He was 
right in saying that his story bore close reference to 
the subject I have been considering. That such a 
man should find so much to attach himself to in this 
poor German girl, who might so easily have been 
found in a very different situation, makes one think 
with dismay how some of the sweetest and highest 
natures amongst women may be in the ranks of those 
who are abandoned to the rude address of the 
coarsest and vilest of men. I say "some of the 
sweetest and highest natures," for there is a cultiva- 
tion in women quite independent of literary culture, 
rank, and other advantages. They are more on a 
level with each other than men. I do not reckon 
this as a proof of their excellence : nor do I at all 



[ m ] 

indulge in the fancy that there is something so 
peculiarly charming in uncultivated people. On the 
contrary, they are seldom just, seldom tolerant ; and, 
as regards innocence and child-like nature, these 
merits abound in persons the most cultivated, and 
even the most conversant with the world. I have 
no doubt we all appear simple and unsophisticated 
enough to superior beings. It is not, therefore, that 
I mean to laud the innocence and naivete of 
ignorance : but only to point out that there is a 
certain platform, as it were, of grace and unselfish- 
ness — of tact, delicacy, and teachableness — on which 
I have no doubt an immense number of women are 
placed, which makes any corruption of such high 
capabilities the more to be regretted. 

Dunsford, in his Friends in Council, has failed in 
representing Ellesmere, if he has not shown him to 
be a most accomplished man and a thorough gentle- 
man; not exactly the conventional gentleman, but a 
man whom savages would certainly take to be a chief 
in his own country, showing high courtesy to others 
with a sort of coolness as regards himself: the result 
of being free from many of the usual small shames, 
petty ends, trivial vanities, and masked social opera- 
tions which dwarf men in their intercourse with 



[ 138 ] 

others, or make them like clowns daubed over in 
ugly patches. His pursuits, as may have been seen, 
are on a larger sphere than those of most lawyers. 
Very observant, too, of the world, I have scarcely a 
doubt he was right in his high appreciation of that 
girl's character. 

We sometimes think we have no romance left; but 
with all our borrowed ways of thinking, our foolish 
imitative habits, our estimations grosser than those of 
Portia's disappointed suitors, some of us occasionally 
do still look at things and people as they are. And 
that alone produces romance enough. 

I wonder whether Gretchen had any love for him ! 
Alas, I suspect, from a fond wistful way in which I 
once saw Lucy look at him, that there is an English 
girl who would mightily like to occupy Gretchen's 
place in his heart. But he casts not a thought at her : 
such is the perversity of things. 

But I must turn from thinking about Ellesmere to 
the consideration of my subject, which is favoured by 
this quiet moment and this retired spot. It seems to 
me that the best thing I can do will be, not so much 
to seek for new arguments and new views, as to 
strengthen and enlighten those already put forward 
in a preceding chapter. 



[ x 39 ] 

I spoke, for instance, there of the cause that 
poverty was of this sin. Now women do not equally 
partake with men in the general poverty in a land, 
but they have to endure an undue proportion of it, 
by reason of many employments being closed to 
them ; so that the sex which is least able and least 
fitted to seek for employment by going from home, 
finds the means of employment at home most circum- 
scribed. 

I cannot but think that this is a mismanagement 
which has proceeded, like many others, from a wrong 
appreciation of women's powers. If they were told 
that they could do many more things than they do, 
they would do them. As at present educated, they 
are, for the most part, thoroughly deficient in method. 
But this surely might be remedied by training. To 
take a very humble and simple instance. Why is it 
that a man-cook is always better than a woman-cook ? 
Simply because a man is more methodical in his 
arrangements, and relies more upon his weights and 
measures. An eminent physician told me, that he 
thought that women were absolutely deficient in the 
appreciation of time. But this I hold to be merely 
one instance of their general want of accuracy ; for 
which there are easy remedies : that is, easy if begun 
early enough. Now it does seem perfectly ludicrous 



[ 14© ] 

that in the dispensing of women's gear they should 
need the intervention of men. I dare say there is 
some good reason for the present practice, some 
advantage gained ; but I should think it likely that 
this advantage would be far more than counter- 
balanced by the advantage of employing women 
altogether in these transactions. 

Again, in the processes of the arts, and in many 
ways which I have not time or space to enter upon, 
women might be provided with new sources of em- 
ployment, if they were properly trained. 

But the truth is, there is a great want of ingenuity 
and arrangement throughout the world in not pro- 
viding employment for its unemployed, both men and 
women. Things that imperatively want to be done 
stare you in the face at every corner. 

If we consider the nature of the intellect of women, 
we really can see no reason for the restrictions laid 
upon them in the choice of employments. They 
possess talents of all kinds. Government, to be sure, 
is a thing not fit for them, their fond prejudices 
coming often in the way of justice. Direction also 
they would want, not having the same power, I think, 
of imagination that men have, nor the same method, 
as I observed before. But how well women might 
work under direction. In how many ways where tact 



[ *4* ] 

and order alone are required they might be employed, 
and also, in how many higher ways, where talent is 
required. 

I suppose I shall have to say something about 
unhappy marriages as a cause of the evil I have 
named as the great sin of great cities. Of course 
there are a great many unhappy marriages. A 
weighty moral writer of the present day intimates 
that there is no medium in the felicity, or infelicity, 
of marriage \ that it is either the summit of joy, or 
the depth of torment. I venture to differ from him 
in this respect. On the contrary, it seems to me 
probable that in marriage the whole diapason of joy 
and sorrow is sounded, from perfect congeniality, if 
there be such a thing (which I doubt), to the utmost 
extent of irritable uncongeniality. 

How this may be I know not, but though unhappi- 
ness in marriage may form some justification of, or, at 
least some explanation for, other connections more 
or less permanent, yet I contend no want of domestic 
love or peace can justify the particular sin which is 
the subject of our present theme. 

At the same time I am far from pronouncing that 
the law of divorce may not require considerable 
modification; but really there are so many large 



[ 142 ] 

questions to deal with in reference to this present 
subject, that I feel I cannot presume to enter upon 
this one of divorce, to discuss which properly would 
require any one man's life. I cannot, however, omit 
all allusion to it, as it has undoubted reference to the 
subject in hand ; and I may remark that it is a great 
deal easier to pass by Milton, or to sneer at him, for 
his great work on The Doctrine and Discipline of 
Divorce, than to answer the arguments therein con- 
tained. The truth is, that there is scarcely anywhere 
a mind sufficiently free from the overruling influence 
of authority on these and similar subjects to be 
able clearly and boldly to apprehend the question for 
itself. 

However, it does not become us to pronounce, if 
we are to judge from the results only, that our 
present notions of marriage are the best possible. 
I can imagine a native of some country where poly- 
gamy is practised, contending that the state of things 
in his own country in this respect is preferable to 
that in ours ; not, perhaps, as producing less misery, 
but at any rate less dishonour both to men and 
women. We should find it difficult to gainsay him 
in this, as of course he would make much of the 
immense and obvious evils of the sin we have been 
considering. 



[ 143 ] 

The greatest and most dangerous objection — I 
should rather say assertion — which will be made 
against anything that has been said in this chapter 
and the two preceding ones, is one that will be 
uttered with a derisive smile by men of the world, as 
they are called \ that is, of a very small section of it. 
Thinking they are deeply cognisant of the human 
heart, because they are very much afraid of its aberra- 
tions, and that they are fully aware of the powers of 
the imagination, from having little themselves and dis- 
couraging the little they ever had — lapped, perhaps, 
in a kind of prosperity which singularly blinds those 
who have the misfortune to enjoy an uninterrupted 
career of it — bounded by a small circle of equally 
well-conditioned, self-satisfied individuals — men of 
this kind pronounced not only upon the influx and 
efflux of tea, coffee, sugar and gold (in which, by the 
way, their dicta are generally wrong), but they are also 
able specifically to declare about the ebb and flow of 
the passions or the affections ; about the tenderest and 
the most delicate of the relations in human life. Talk 
to any man of this worldly class about moral causes, or 
religious influences, he is equally at home with them, 
as if you were to ask him about the subjects most 
-" immersed in matter." I can see the self-sufficient 
way in which if he had lived some seven hundred 



[ 144 ] 

years ago, after the first crusade, he would have pro- 
nounced with a wave of his hand after dinner, that 
there never could be such another adventure again, as 
the first had by no means been found to pay. But 
soon all Europe is listening to the clink of hammers 
upon harness, and thousands, hundreds of thousands, 
are repeating an adventure not good in a commercial 
sense, but still which gave a dignity to them such as 
the stayers at home never attained. 

Having damaged, as much as I can, the imaginary 
opponents — who I know, however, will prove real 
ones — before I bring their saying into presence, I 
will now tell what that saying will assuredly be. 

In answer to all that has been urged in the way 
of remedy for this evil, they will simply reply, " But 
these things always must be; the laws of supply 
and demand hold good in this case as in others : 
to think otherwise is the mere dream of writers and 
other ideologists : no wonder Napoleon disliked such 
people : we do too." 

To this, taking them on their own ground, I would 
reply that at any rate the force of circumstances (a 
phrase they delight in) may be so adapted and modi- 
fied as only to meet the exact necessities of the case. 
I mean, for instance, that those by nature most 
inclined to innocence should have the fairest oppor- 



[ *45 ] 

tunities of remaining innocent; that, in short, it 
should be the worst people that fell into the worst 
ways. This, of course, is only an ideal scheme too ; 
but there might be a practical tendency in that 
direction. 

In reality, however, it is the greatest mistake to sup- 
pose that such laws of supply and demand are not over- 
ruled by much higher influences. All things depend 
for their ultimate aim and end on the spirit in which 
they are undertaken; which spirit cannot well be con- 
cealed. The measured generosity of mean people, 
whose gifts are all strictly related to duty, does not 
deceive others; the bystander knows that these 
people are not generous, though he cannot exactly 
confute them from their words or their deeds. Again, 
people may pretend to be religious; but if the real 
spirit is not in them, its absence is soon felt. I am 
merely giving these as instances of the deficiency of 
the right spirit being felt, or perceived, even when the 
outward deeds or words are there. But the spirit 
which -results from conviction, and which gradually 
modifies public opinion, is one of the most powerful 
things known: who shall put limits to it? It will 
meet and occasionally master all the passions. Take 
the question of duelling, for instance; if you could 
have told a man of former times, when duelling was 

K 



[ ^ ] 

rife, that it would soon be almost done away with, 
"What!" he would have exclaimed, "will there be 
no lovers, no jealous husbands, no walls to take the 
inner side of, no rudeness, no drunkenness, no 
calumny, no slander? And, if there are, how will 
the quarrels that must arise from these things be 
adjusted? Do not talk such Utopian nonsense to 
me, but come and let us practise in the shooting- 
gallery." And, yet, see how stealthily, how un- 
assumingly, how completely public opinion, the 
result of a wise and good spirit gradually infused into 
men, has disarmed duellism ; as quietly, in fact, as the 
king's guard in former days would have taken away 
the weapons of any two presumptuous gentlemen 
who brought their quarrelling too near his Majesty's 
vicinity in his parks. 

One of the kind of reproaches that will ever be 
made, with much or little justice (generally with 
little justice), against any men who endeavour to 
reform or improve anything, is that they are not ready 
with definite propositions ; that they are like the 
Chorus in a Greek play, making general remarks 
about nature and human affairs, without suggesting 
any clear and decided course to be taken. Some- 
times this reproach is just; but very often, on the 



[ 147 ] 

other hand, it is utterly unreasonable. Frequently 
the course to be taken in each individual instance 
is one that it would be almost impossible to 
decide, still more to lay down with minuteness, 
without a knowledge of the facts in the particular 
instance : whereas what is wanted is not to sug- 
gest a course of action, but a habit of thought 
which will modify not one or two actions only, but 
all actions that come within the scope of that 
thought. 

Again, there are people who are not so unreason- 
able as to expect suggestions that will exactly meet 
their own individual cases, but still they wish for 
general rules or general propositions to be laid down. 
There must be instant legislation to please them ; 
something visibly done. And often it is needful that 
something should be done, which however falls, per- 
haps, under the functions of other men than the 
original social reformers. There is always such a 
belief in what is mechanical, that men of ordinary 
minds cannot assure themselves that anything is done, 
unless something palpable is before them \ unless they 
can refer to a legislative act, or unless there is a 
building, an institution, a newspaper, or some visible 
thing, which illustrates the principle. But in reality 
the first thing is to get people to be of the same mind 



[ 148 ] 

as regards social evils. When once they are of this 
mind, the evils will soon disappear. A wise convic- 
tion is like light; it gradually dawns upon a few 
minds, but a slight mist rises also with this rise of 
light j as the day goes on and the light rises higher, 
spreads further, and is more intense, growth of all 
kinds takes place silently and without great demon- 
stration of any kind. This light permeates, colours, 
and enlarges all it shines upon. 

Now, to apply some of these thoughts to our 
present subject. I do not believe that there will 
always be a certain set amount of wrong-doing in this 
or in any other case. On the other hand, I do not 
expect that people will suddenly rush into virtue. 
To take a very humble instance, the suppression of 
smoke, one of the most visible evils in the world, how 
long a time it takes to subdue that ? From Count 
Rumford's time to the present day, how many persons 
have written, preached, talked, experimented, on the 
subject? And if this long process has to take place 
in so obvious a matter, how much more must it be so 
in the subtler regions of men's minds, in their habits 
of justice, or of forethought? But, insensibly, even in 
these dim and remote regions, good counsels, or evil 
counsels, will eventually prevail — as quietly, perhaps, 
but as surely, as the submerged coral rock grows and 



[ *49 ] 

increases from the accumulations of minute, gelatinous, 
molluscous creatures. 

The train of thought which I have described above 
did not of course occur to me in the methodical way 
in which I have now put it down, but with frequent 
breaks and interruptions both from internal thoughts 
and the aspect of external objects. Now it was the 
noise of the mill, now the beauty of some homestead, 
now the neatness of some well-cultivated field, or the 
richness of some full farmyard that claimed my 
attention. But when I had finished thinking of the 
answer that must be given to that worldly objection, 
"that there is a demand for wickedness, and that 
there must be a supply of it," I leaned back in the 
carriage and turned my mind to other branches of 
the subject. Just at that time, whether it was that a 
troop of little children came out of a school-house 
close to the road, or that I noticed the early budding 
in the hedgerows, as I passed along, I began to think 
of what had been alluded to in a former chapter; 
namely, what a beautiful thing youth is, and how sad 
that it should be spoilt at its outset. And I went on 
to think not only of the negative, that is, of the loss 
of so much beautiful life and promise, but of the 
positive misery inflicted, which surely is well worth 
taking into consideration. 



[ iSo ] 

Tragedy is very grand, with grand accessories, 

" Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line, 
Or the Tale of Troy divine," 

when a purple-clad man, free from all the pettinesses 
of life, pours out a strain of sorrow which melts all 
hearts, and goes some way to dignify the sufferings of 
all humanity. But, after all, in some squalid den, as 
great if not a greater tragedy is often transacted, only 
without the scenery and decorations of the other, 
when some poor victim of seduction — now steeped in 
misery and sunk in the abysses of self-degradation, 
amidst blasphemy, subject to reviling that she scarcely 
hears or easily endures from habit — lies on the bed of 
sickness thinking of her mother's gentle assiduities in 
some of the ailments of her childhood, and covers her 
face with her hands at the thought that that mother, 
dead, perhaps heart-broken, may now, a spirit, be 
looking down upon her. Well might Camoens 
wonder " That in so small a theatre as that of one 
poor bed, it should please Fortune to represent such 
great calamities. And I, too," he says, " as if these 
calamities did not suffice, must needs put myself on 
their side ; for to attempt to resist such evils would 
be something shameless." 

I had meditated but a few minutes on this cry of 
anguish, which I seemed to hear as it came from the 



r 151 ] 

dying bed of one of the most unfortunate of men of 
genius, and which I fancied, too, I heard from many 
other death-beds, when we turned out of the main 
road into the lanes which lead to Worth-Ashton. 
With all our pretences at governing or directing 
our thoughts, how they lie at the mercy of the 
merest accident ! Once in these lanes I quitted my 
subject, and began to think how the way to my house 
might be shortened, and I was already deep in the 
engineering difficulties of the proceeding, when some- 
what satirically I said to myself, What a mania you 
have for improving everything about you : could you 
not, my dear Leonard, spare a little of this reforming 
energy for yourself? One would think that you did 
not need it at all, to see the way you go on writing 
moral essays. Myself replied to me, This is a very 
spiteful remark of yours, and very like what Ellesmere 
would have said. Have I not always protested in the 
strongest manner against the assumption, that a writer 
of moral essays must be a moral man himself? Your 
friend Ellesmere, in reference to this very point, 
remarks that if all clergymen had been Christians, 
there would by this time have been no science of 
theology. But, jesting apart, it would be a sad thing 
indeed if one's ideal w r as never to go beyond one's 
own infirmities. However, myself agrees with you, 



[ i52 ] 

my dear I, so far, that it is much safer to be thought 
worse than better than one really is : and so blacken 
me as much as you like, and detract from me as much 
as you can, so that you do not injure my arguments 
or my persuasions. These I believe in, and will 
endeavour to carry out, just as if they had been 
uttered by the most irreproachable and perfect man 
in the world. 

Maintaining this strange dialogue as stoutly as if 
there had been two persons instead of one in the 
carriage, I, or rather we (I wonder whether the 
editorial "we" is thus really dual, consisting of a 
man and his conscience) — we, I say, reached the gate 
of Worth- Ashton, pretty good friends with each other, 
and pleased with what we had thought over during 
our ride homewards. 



CHAPTER IX. 

SINCE giving an account of my last reverie. I have 
been abroad for a short time, which has a little 
interrupted my work, but I now resume it with less 
feeling of weariness. I seldom think much during a 
tour. Indeed I come out to avoid thinking. I do 
not come to see what can be said or thought about 
any place, but to see it. Nevertheless, occasionally. 
I make a few notes consisting of some disjointed 
words, sufficient to recall to me. and to me only, what 
were the things which made an impression upon me. 

One scene of this last journey I find commemorated 
in this short way ; and. as it is connected with some 
thoughts which carry on the subjects we (my readers 
and I) have lately been considering. I will recall it. 

I shall not tell with any preciseness where I was : 
for if I did so, and did it well, my countrymen would 
flock to see the place. Not that I grudge them seeing 
anything. I suppose it happens to many of us. when 
abroad, to feel a little ashamed now and then of these 
same countrymen ; but yet I often think with pleasure 



[ i54 ] 

that even the most coarse and obtuse traveller brings 
back something besides self-conceit. One regrets that 
such opportunities are not always bestowed on minds 
fully able to profit by them \ but still one hopes that 
the most uncultivated people cannot escape getting 
some little advantage from their travels ; and if they 
were to stay at home, they would not the less remain 
uncultivated people. 

Such travellers, however, would not thank me at all 
for describing a place which might thus get into jhe 
guide-books, and then, alas ! form one more spot 
which they must stop to look at, while they would far 
rather scamper over more ground and see more well- 
known places with great names. And as for the 
people who see things for themselves, they will not 
pass by the spot in question without giving it a due 
regard. 

And what a scene it is ! Across a wide extent of 
water lies a bridge of immense length formed of uneven 
planks supported upon piles. There is no railing to 
the bridge, so that you seem almost upon the water, 
and you have the sensation of being at sea, with the 
grandeur and without the misery (as it is to me) of 
such a situation. Here and there is an oratory out- 
jutting from the line of planks, with a narrow edging 
of stone round it. 



[ i55 ] 

It was evening when I came upon the bridge, but 
not so late as to prevent me from seeing w r ell the 
country about me, which at intervals went down into 
the water in narrow tongues of land, with buildings 
upon them. Immediately on the heights above me 
were an old tower and a monastery. Near the land 
some giant reeds rose up from the water, but did not 
sway to and fro the least, for there was not a breath 
of wind. The only noise was a plash of the water 
against a jetty, or the occasional jumping of a fish. 
On one of the strange-looking rocks there, which come 
abruptly out of the water as if asking you a question 
from the deep, reposed a meditative crane standing 
upon one leg 

On one side of the bridge the hills rise up around 
you evenly, and the mountains are well balanced in 
form : on the other side, they descend abruptly and 
ascend again, leaving a most picturesque gorge. Two 
poplars were to be seen on the lowland near this 
gorge. 

As evening deepened, and no more peasants 
returning homeward from the other side saluted me 
with their Good-night, the houses on the surrounding 
hills showed like glow-worms, and all was still, save 
the plash of the water on the jetty. 

I find that new places do not always bring new 



[ 156 ] 

thoughts : sometimes they only intensify those which 
one has thought before. My mind went back to what 
is held by many persons to be a most prosaic subject 
— namely, education. And I thought how education, 
to be of any assured worth, must continue throughout 
life. " Now, Sir, that your education is ended," 
exclaims the parent or the guardian to many a young 
man whose education, in the highest sense of the 
word, is now about to begin. This is the mistake that 
we make, too, about the poor. Reading and writing 
will not do alone. You might as well prepare for a 
liberal hospitality by a good apparatus for roasting and 
boiling, but never putting on any viands, so that the 
kitchen machinery went on grinding unceasingly, with 
no contentment to the appetites of the hungry. No : 
before we shall be able to make much of education, 
the highest amongst us must take larger views of it, 
and not suppose that it is a mere definite quantity of 
cultivation — defined according to the narrow limits of 
the fashions of the day. 

If we saw this clearly, we should not be so anxious 
to succeed at college, at the bar, in parliament, in 
literature, or in any one art and science. We should 
perceive that there was a certain greatness of nature 
and acquirement to be aimed at, which we would not 
sacrifice to any one pursuit, worldly or artistic. 



[ 157 ] 

I stayed no longer on the bridge, but, ascending 
from it, made my way to a church which stood on the 
height close to the old tower. I marked in the light 
of the moon the slight, graceful, fantastic crosses in 
iron-work, telling that a peaceful population slept 
beside me ; and I sat down upon a low, broad stone 
wall. Thence you might see the wide waters, and 
some houses whose shadows lay upon the meads 
which skirted the waters. 

" And that is what all their ambition has come to,'"' 
I muttered to myself, turning to the crosses. 

"Linquenda tellus, et donius, et placens" 

(what an epithet !) 

" Uxor : neque harum, quas colis, arborum, 
Te, praeter invisas cupressus, 

Ulla brevem dominum sequetur. " 

These inevitable commonplace remarks mostly 
contain the profoundest and the sincerest thought. 
Yes, life may be but a poor business at the best; 
nevertheless, said I to myself, I will try to do some- 
thing yet, if life is spared to me. And so, resuming 
the subject which I had been working at before I left 
home (namely, the great sin of great cities), I began 
to consider what I should conclude by saying, just as 
if I had been in my study at Worth- Ashton. 



[ «5« ] 

My eye wandered over the dark hills, catching 
every now and then the glow-worm light which came 
from some house or cottage perched up there. I 
pictured to myself the daughter of one of these 
homes carried off to some great town, soon to be lost 
there in its squalid suburbs, like beautiful, spoilt fruit 
swept away with garbage into the common kennel. 
The girl, perhaps, is much to blame herself; for we 
must admit that the fault is not always on one side, 
and we must not suffer any sickly sentiment to darken 
truth and justice. Yes — she may be much to blame ; 
but, surely, the wiser creature, man, is more so. 
Seduction is such a poor transaction. There was a 
time, it was one of the basest times the world has 
ever seen, when seduction was thought a fine and 
clever thing; but now who does not see that to 
delude a woman, a creature easily to be deluded, 
especially through its affections, is a slight, unworthy 
transaction, and but for its dire consequences, would 
be ludicrous; like cheating a child at cards? But 
when you add to this that in many a case, desertion 
follows so rapidly upon seduction as almost to appear 
as if they had been planned together, then the small- 
ness of the transaction is absolutely lost in the con- 
sideration of its baseness. 

However, say what we will, there will often be 



[ 159 ] 

seductions ; and it would be a great point gained, if 
desertion should be looked upon with greater severity. 
This brings me at once to the subject of what are 
called illegitimate children. 

Now, duties are very often very difficult things to 
apprehend rightly. As everything is ultimately referred 
to duty, and as a great many things in this world are 
very dubious, it is manifest that duties are often very 
dubious likewise. There are not only clear, but dim 
and shadowy duties, if I may so express them, which 
are very perplexing, and occupy much of a mams 
time and thought. Often we find that what we sup- 
posed to be a duty was anything but a duty. The 
great persecutors for opinion have probably found that 
out now; and, indeed, on earth, we often discover 
that what we supposed to be a duty, and performed 
with earnest diligence, was a great delusion. Under 
these circumstances, it does seem to me that when we 
have before us an undoubted duty, one of those things 
which come under the axioms of morality, we can 
hardly lay too much stress on the performance of 
that. It is like what we ought to do in our charities, 
I think. Charity is so difficult and perplexed a 
thing, that when a man has got hold of a clearly 
good charity which he can carry out, he had better 
do that thoroughly than dissipate his resources, 



[ x6o ] 

mental and physical, in any efforts of a dubious 
tendency. 

Now, I suppose, there are few things clearer to the 
human mind, 

" To saint, to savage, and to sage," 

than that a father owes duties to his child. The 
dullest savages have seen that. Even Lacedaemonians, 
if they put off individual fatherhood, only did so by 
throwing it upon the community. How can a man, 
for a moment, imagine that any difference of rank 
(a mere earthly arrangement) between the mother of 
his child and himself can absolve him from paternal 
duties? I am lost in astonishment at the notion. 
And then imagine a man, performing all manner of 
minor duties, neglecting this first one the while. I 
always fancy that we may be surrounded by spiritual 
powers. Now, think what a horrible mockery it must 
seem tO T "tfieffi, when they behold a man going to 
charity dinners, busying himself about flannel for the 
poor, jabbering about education at public meetings, 
immersed, in different forms and ceremonies of reli- 
gion, or raging fcgainst such things, because it is his 
duty, as he tells you j and at the door holding a 
link, or perhaps at that moment bringing home the 
produce of small thefts in a neighbouring, narrow 



[ i6i ] 

alley, is his own child, a pinched-up, haggard, outcast, 
cunning-looking little thing. Throw down, man, the 
flannel and the soap and the education and the 
Popery and Protestantism, and go up that narrow 
alley and tend your child : do not heap that palpably 
unjust burden on the back of a w T orld which has 
enough at all times of its own to bear. If you cannot 
find your own child, adopt two others in its place, 
and let your care for them be a sort of sin-offering. 
These are indignant words, but not more so than is 
right, I do believe, and I will not suppress one of 
them. 

I am not ignorant of the difficulty of doing as I 
would have a man do in such a case. I do not write 
as a hermit or a clergyman, but as a man who thinks 
he knows something of the w T orld. To own to 
immorality, to have that fair respectability spotted 
which we all value so much, and which is valuable, is 
no slight effort. A man who would beard a lion in 
his den, will shrink from doing what he ought to do, 
lest in so doing his neighbours should say unpleasant 
words about him behind his back. And yet there 
have been respectable men who have worn beards 
and strange hats which their neighbours did not wear; 
a more daring thing, perhaps, than owning to any 
immorality and endeavouring to repair it. 



[ i6 2 ] 

There are men who have secretly supported the 
burden of an illegitimate family : these at least are 
far better men than those who have joined the world 
in ignoring the existence of those they were bound to 
know of and to succour. Great kings, who can afford 
to set aside conventionality, before whom "nice 
custom curtseys," have boldly taken charge of their 
illegitimate children, and the world has not thought 
the worse of them for that, whatever it may justly 
have thought of the rest of their proceedings. 

Some may reply, All this acknowledgment is 
encouragement. I say not. I say it holds before a 
person those duties, the general forgetfulness of 
which encourages to immorality. But, really, fine 
questions of general morality ought to be of second- 
rate importance to a man who is neglecting his first 
duties. 

Is it not so? I said, looking round upon the thin 
shadows cast by the crosses over the graves. Silent 
population (any one of whom, the meanest, could now 
tell us more, mayhap, than all the wise men and 
doctors of this earth), silent population, is it not so? 
But none answered, unless a sigh of the breeze which 
now stole over the churchyard was the expression of 
one of those subtle chords of sympathy, rarely heard, 
still more rarely appreciated, which, perhaps, bring 



[ *6 3 ] 

animate, and what we call inanimate, nature into 
secret, strange communion. 

I went down again upon the bridge, looked up at 
the solemn sky, for the moon was clouded now, and 
beneath me at the dim waters, being able to discern 
naught else : and still with some regard to what I had 
been thinking of in the churchward, hoped that, in a 
future state at least, we might have some opportunity 
of loving and making our peace with those whom we 
have wronged here, and of seeing that our wrong, over- 
ruled by infinite goodness, has not wrought all the 
injury which there was in it to do. 

So I walked on, having those dim apprehensions 
and undefined feelings which are yet, perhaps, the 
unfashioned substance of our sincerest and most exact 
afterthought, until darkness and the cold and the 
thought of to-morrow's journey drove me homeward 
— the home so emblematical for man in his pilgrim- 
age — the home of an inn. 



CHAPTER X. 

SO varied, extensive, and pervading are human 
distresses, sorrows, shortcomings, miseries, and 
misadventures, that a chapter of aid or consolation 
never comes amiss, I think. There is a pitiless, 
pelting rain this morning; heavily against my study 
windows drives the south-western gale ; and altogether 
it is a very fit day for working at such a chapter. The 
in-door comforts which enable one to resist with 
composure, nay even to welcome, this outward 
conflict and hubbub, are like the plans and resources 
provided by philosophy and religion, to meet the 
various calamities driven against the soul in its 
passage through this stormy world. The books 
which surround me have been found an equal 
resource in both respects, both against the weather 
from without and from within, against physical and 
mental storms : and, if it might be so, I would pass 
on to others the comfort which a seasonable word 
has often brought to me. 



[ i65 J 

If I were to look round these shelves, what a host 
of well-loved names would rise up, as those who have 
said brave or wise words to comfort and aid their 
brethren in adversity. It seems as if little remained 
to be said ; but in truth there is always waste land in 
the human heart to be tilled. 

The first thing which occurs to me is, that in 
bearing misfortune and vexation, as in overcoming 
temptation, there is a certain confidence which had 
better be put aside. This confidence sometimes 
results from a faith in reason, or rather a faith in our 
being exactly amenable to reason. For instance, it is 
some time before a man ceases to have a full belief in 
his own powers of accomplishing by direct means the 
absolute rule in his mind. If he is convinced of a 
thing, he says to himself, of course he will act accord- 
ingly. It astonishes him to hear of men — great men 
— who could not overcome, or found the greatest 
difficulty in overcoming, some small habit. Indeed, 
according to his brave imaginings, he intends always 
to overcome terrors and temptations, not merely to 
avoid them. Such is a very juvenile though a very 
natural mode of thinking. It requires a good many 
fallings in the mire, before a man finds that his own 
mind, temperament, and faculties, are things which 
will give him as much or more trouble to manage, 



[ i66 ] 

than his affairs, or his family, or than the whole world 
besides. 

But as a man learns certain rules of health, so that 
it is said that at forty he is either a fool or a physician, 
so again, in dealing with the affections of the mind, 
there comes a skill which is not to be despised : and 
a man finds that the evil he cannot master he can 
ignore, the care he cannot efface he can elude, the 
felicity he cannot accomplish he can weigh and 
understand, and so reduce it from the size it would 
occupy in his imagination to its proper and reasonable 
limits. At last even sensitive people learn to suffer 
less from sensitiveness ; not that it grows dull by age, 
but that they learn to manage it better. 

As a sound preparation for consolation of various 
kinds, I would begin, not by wilfully magnifying evils, 
but by showing their true proportions, which no 
doubt makes them seem larger than the imagination 
of the young, mistaught by many unsound fictions, 
pictures them to be. But nothing can be better than 
the truth. In its hand are all earthly and all heavenly 
consolations. As an instance of what I mean, there 
is a common fancy that an untoward event generally 
comes and goes with considerable rapidity — and 
there an end \ whereas it is very often a long-continued 
process. You do not fall sheer down a precipice, 



[ i6 7 ] 

but go tumbling by degrees, drinking in the full 
measure of danger and horror, catching at bushes here 
and there, now imagining for a moment that you have 
found security on some projecting ledge, and then 
finding the ground crumbling under you; and so you 
fall onwards till you reach the lowest level. The 
above is rather a strong image, but it may convey 
what I intend. 

To illustrate it in practice — most men who have 
lived any time in the world, unless they have been 
the very minions of fortune (in which case, by the 
way, they are not much to be envied), have vexations 
of considerable standing — long lawsuits, disastrous 
adventures, an ill-conducted child, or some other 
terrible relative, a deplorable shame, often such a 
mingled tissue of fault and misfortune, that they can- 
not pity themselves sufficiently for blame at their 
folly ; and they return from thinking over the folly 
to grieving over the ill-luck (as they call it) which 
brought out the folly so remarkably on that particular 
occasion. 

Such a course of things requiring time for its deve- 
lopment, can hardly fail to exercise in vexation all 
the moods and faculties of a man. A statesman does 
not perhaps work, intellectually speaking, harder than 
a lawyer in great practice ; but the cares of the latter 



[ i68 ] 

are cares which begin and end with the day; not 
long lines of policy which require time and protracted 
care on one subject to work out, and where failure 
often comes by slow degrees. 

Now, then, for the attempt at aid or consolation in 
such a case. Suppose the course of events I have 
spoken of to be one of failure and vexation — realised, 
or about to be so, to use an American phrase, and a 
very good one. A wise man (but that word " wise " 
is hardly a fit adjective to put before " man," it would 
be better to say, a man well-read in the heart) sees 
when he has suffered enough from these lengthened 
trains of evils, when he has exhausted the instruction 
from them; and though from time to time he may 
revert to them, as new views or new circumstances 
occur, enabling him to look down from a fresh height, 
as it were, on these long, dreary, disastrous passages 
of his life, yet he resolves substantially to have done 
with them ; and when he finds them invading his 
mind and memory, adroitly he contrives at once to 
occupy it with something else. 

With his wisdom of this world, Napoleon, no doubt, 
took care not to let his Russian campaign press fatally 
upon his recollections. 

Another way for a man in such a case is to quote 
these disasters fearlessly to himself, and sometimes 



[ i«9 ] 

to others, as dear-bought bits of experience, now 
possessions : bought, it is true, at a most extravagant 
price, but still a little property, far better than 
nothing. 

There is great humility in such plans as the above : 
the man who adopts them has found out, or at least 
he thoroughly suspects, his own weakness, and is 
willing to avail himself of any fair advantage to fight 
with the numerous enemies that surround him. Like 
a wise commander, he looks about for the slightest 
rising ground. 

The same adroitness and practical wisdom may 
be manifested, not only in thought but in action. A 
friend of mine who had to attend a series of inter- 
views, in which business was discussed of much 
vexation to him, and where he had to undergo, justly, 
much contumely, discovered that the occasions when 
he gave way to temper and behaved unwisely, were 
those in which he rode on a tiresome horse to the 
place of business. This is very natural : his nerves 
were a little ruffled in managing the unruly quadruped; 
his powers a little impaired ; his composure slightly 
broken through to begin with : and, where things are 
nicely balanced, this slight disturbance of equanimity 
might turn the scale. Afterwards he took care to go 
to the place of these interviews always in the easiest 



[ no ] 

manner, and noted the good effect of this change. 
How trivial such an anecdote will seem, except to 
those who know the world well, and have seen how 
important small things may be when they happen to 
be brought into the same narrow compass of affairs 
with great ones ! 

But now, to pass to other subjects of human dis- 
tress, and first among them, to all that is suffered from 
obloquy. 

In bearing obloquy it may be noted, by way of con- 
solation, that the world is always correcting its opin- 
ions \ that — except amongst your particular friends and 
relations, who have, perhaps, taken up a most erro- 
neous view of your character, and, in the pride of a 
little knowledge, will never let it go — the general body 
of opinion is very fluent, and, at last, everything has 
a hearing. I have a private suspicion of my own, that 
some of those Roman emperors we read of have been 
maligned a little. Somebody else, perhaps, has the 
same notion; if it is a just one, it will yet be inves- 
tigated, and what there is true in it be sifted out. 

It is certainly a long time to wait, for ages, to have 
an unjust opinion of you corrected ; but if fame is 
worth anything at all, then there is a consolation in 
thinking that eventually you have a chance of being 
fairly dealt with. 



[ n* ] 

By way of comfort in bearing calumny, it may be 
observed that calumny does not originate in the way 
ordinarily supposed; that there is rarely any such 
thing as a system of active, well-regulated, well-aimed 
calumny, arising out of malice prepense ; but that far 
more often it has its source in honest ignorance, 
mean-mindedness, or absolute mistake. It is to be 
viewed, therefore, in the light of a misfortune, rather 
than in that of a persecution. 

Any man of many transactions can hardly expect 
to go through life without being subject to one or two 
very severe calumnies. Amongst these many trans- 
actions, some few will be with very ill-conditioned 
people, with very ignorant people, or perhaps with 
monomaniacs (and much less account is taken of them 
than ought to be) ; and he cannot expect, therefore, 
but that some narrative of a calumnious kind will 
have its origin in one of these transactions. It may 
then be fanned by any accidental breeze of malice or 
ill-fortune, and become a very serious element of 
mischief to him. Such a thing is to be looked upon 
as pure misfortune coming in the ordinary course of 
events ; and the way of treating it is to deal with it as 
calmly and philosophically as with any other misfor- 
tune. As some one has said, the mud will rub off 
when it is dry, and not before. The drying will not 



[ *7 2 ] 

always come in the calumniated man's time, unless in 
favourable seasons, which he cannot command. It is 
not wise, however, to be very impatient to justify 
one's self; and, altogether, too much stress should 
not be laid upon calumny by the calumniated, else 
their serious work will be for ever interrupted ; and 
they should remember that it is not so much their 
business to explain to others all they do, as to be 
sure that it will bear explanation and satisfy them- 
selves. 

When I was in the habit of seeing something of 
official life, I used to wonder that a great department 
suffered itself to be calumniated, and made no sign ; 
but older and wiser heads than mine soon convinced 
me that their business did not admit of their con- 
futing every idle and erroneous statement that was 
made about them, and that they were mainly to 
answer to those persons who had authority to question 
them. The same judicious maxim applies also to 
private life. 

Not far removed from calumny, and often leading 
up to it, is injurious comment on people's conduct ; 
which, when addressed or repeated to them, or 
imagined by them, is apt to vex them sorely. But 
really if it were considered how utterly incompetent 



[ *73 ] 

men are to talk of the conduct of others, as they do, 
the talkers would often be silenced at once, and the 
sufferers as readily consoled. In the first place, how 
imperfect is our knowledge of our neighbour's circum- 
stances ? You suppose a man rich, and he is poor ; 
or rich, but with perils, claims, and responsibilities of 
which you know nothing ; you suppose him healthy, 
and he is tortured by some internal disease ; you 
suppose him unhappy in his domestic relations, and 
he is most felicitous ; or, on the other hand, you 
suppose him lapped in the loving regards of his 
family, and all the while he has a wretched, con- 
tentious home ; you suppose him a man of leisure, 
and he is cumbered with cares, duties, labours, and 
endeavours, of which you have not the slightest con- 
ception — what is your comment on this man's conduct 
worth ? Then, if we observe the difference of men's 
natures, and consider the want of imagination in most 
men which confines them to the just appreciation of 
those natures only which are like their own, how 
much this complicates the question. Probably the 
difference of temperament amongst men is as great 
as that amongst the different species of animals— as 
between that, for instance, of the lively squirrel and 
the solemn crane. Now, if only from this difference 
between them, the squirrel would be a bad judge of 



[ 174 ] 

the felicity, or generosity, or the domestic conduct, 
of the crane. 

Probably when we are thinking or talking of a 
person, we recall some visual image of that person. 
I have thought what an instructive thing it would be, 
if under some magic influence, like that, for example, 
which would construct a " palace of truth," it were 
arranged that as we gave out our comments on the 
character or conduct of any person, this image on 
the retina of memory should change according to 
the truth, or rather the want of it, in our remarks. 
Gradually, feature after feature would steal away till 
we gazed at nonentity; or we should find another 
image glide into the field of view, somebody we had 
never seen, perhaps, but to whom the comments we 
were uttering really did apply. 

Now, the sufferers from injurious and unjust com- 
ment might treat the whole thing as one which lacked 
reality. The blame itself is often good enough, well- 
compacted, forcible, having an appearance of justice 
— but withal no foundation in real circumstances, so 
that it is only good, if you may say so, in a literary 
sense, as good fiction, but having no groundwork in 
real life. How little ought a thoughtful man to be 
long vexed at such stuff, immaterial in every sense. 

Besides, none of the great teachers have taught us, 



[ i75 ] 

that to be reviled is any signal misfortune ; and there 
has been One, the greatest, who has pronounced it to 
be fraught with blessing. 

In bearing neglect, the next evil to calumny, and a 
sort of disengaged shadow of it, many aids may be 
given to those who will be content to take them. 
No doubt neglect is hard to bear for one who feels 
that he ought not to be neglected. But where this is 
justly felt, the neglect may generally be traced up to 
some source which is not, necessarily, a painful one. 
A man will not condescend to use certain means, and 
yet would have what those means alone, or best, can 
give him ; or he insists, in his mental cogitations, 
upon possessing that which could hardly be got 
except with the aid of certain advantages joined to 
merit, which advantages, whether wisely or not, 
Nature or Fortune has denied him: Having one 
stout friend (as Bacon, before quoted, has noticed), 
what will it not do for a man ? There are certain 
things he cannot say for himself. If he says them, 
they turn into shame, vain glory, and mischief, instead 
of aid and honour to him. Well, he has no friend to 
back him at the right time, how can he get those 
advantages which such a friend could gracefully obtain 
for him ? Frequently, perhaps most frequently, the 
friend in question comes forward in the shape of a 



[ 176 ] 

relation who has a direct interest in the fortunes of 
the man he puts forward. This is called having good 
connections. Any neglected man of merit ought not 
to suffer himself to be quite disheartened because he 
was not born with such relations. Neither were the 
poor men who dig in the fields. 

But neglect is only one phase of what man hates 
more, and suffers more from, than almost anything 
else — namely, injustice. His sensitiveness in this 
respect is very remarkable. A little wrong outweighs 
a great injury. Indeed, the things are not to be 
weighed in the same scales, are practically incom- 
mensurable. The sea invades a man's estate, and 
retires carrying away land and crops, leaving sand 
where there was alluvial soil : it is a misfortune ; and 
he has a dull sense of sorrow and vexation if the loss 
is one of magnitude. But the poor blind elements 
meant no harm, or if he thinks they were guided, he 
knows it was by One whose chastisements must be 
blessings. 

Again, suppose him to have spent much money in 
riotous living. Well, he thinks of this with shame, 
especially when some good comes in his way to do, 
and he sees what he might have done with the 
squandered resources. Still there was something for 
his money. He was not cheated ; he was mistaken. 



[ 177 ] 

But observe the same man on looking over a bill of 
costs : where, often, for many items together, it is only 
wrong-doing requiring to be paid, and he feels that 
when he pays it, he is helping to support a vicious 
system of things. It is not well to be of his family 
circle on the day when he settles those accounts, 
unless he is one of those rare and generous creatures 
who do not mitigate their own misfortunes by unkind- 
ness to those with whom they live. No liberality of 
nature will suffice to soothe his mind. It is not a 
question of liberality. The same man who, with 
Luther, would say to his wife, " Why did we not give 
the silver cup to that poor man as we had no money?" 
will haggle over an unjust or unsatisfactory pay- 
ment from morning till night. But it is a question of 
wisdom and experience : for a wise and well-informed 
man will see what must almost inevitably be the evil 
results of the particular form of laws he lives under 
(for codes are the doings of very imperfect creatures 
with a limited range of circumstances before them), 
and he does not expect to go into the most vexed and 
troublous part of human affairs, and come out with 
smooth countenance and unruffled garments. Neither 
will such a man be disposed to imagine that he is 
worse off than others, or has worse people to deal 
with. 

M 



[ i?8 ] 

And the same thing is to be said of injustice 
generally. You often hear a man making the some- 
what simple complaint, that he only wants justice. 
Only justice ! why justice requires time, insight, and 
goodness : and you demand this in each case of the 
many hundreds that occur to you in the course of a 
year in which your fellow-beings have some dealings 
with you. No — justice ! look not for it till you are in 
a state of being for which you will hardly say that you 
are yet quite fit. In truth, the consideration of what 
a world of misunderstanding, haste, blindness, passion, 
indolence, and private interest we are in the thick of 
(perhaps the beauty of it as a world of trial) would go 
some little way to cure a man from vexing the depths 
of his soul, because he suffers from extortion, misre- 
presentation, neglect, or injustice of any kind. He is 
on earth: and men are unjust to him. How ludicrous 
the complaint ! 

Perhaps the wrongs w r e endure from unjust treat- 
ment would be easier to bear, if our notions of jus- 
tice were modified a little. For my part, instead of 
picturing her, sword in hand, apparently engaged in 
blindly weighing out small groceries — a figure that 
would better denote the goddess Fortune, as it seems 
to me — I imagine Justice travelling swiftly round 



[ 179 1 

about the earth, diffusing a mild effluence of light like 
that of a polar night, but followed not by her own 
attendants, but by the ungainly shadows of all evil 
things, envy and prejudice, indolence and selfishness, 
her enemies ; and these shadows lay themselves down 
before her in their malice, and love to intercept her 
light. The aspect of a good man scares them partially 
away, and then her light lies in great broad spaces on 
the mead : with most of us, it is chequered like the 
sunshine under trees ; and there are poor creatures in 
whose presence all the evil shadows descend, leaving 
but a streak of light here and a spot there, where the 
hideous shadows do not quite fit in together. Happily, 
however, all these shadows are mortal, and as they 
die away, dark miserable places come into light and 
life again, and truth returns to them as her abodes 
for ever. 

Descending from these flights about justice to the 
more prosaic parts of the subject, I may notice, that 
mean misfortunes are often the most difficult to bear. 
There is no instrument of philosophy small enough to 
take them up and deal with them. A long career of 
small anxieties is also very hard to bear. 

One thing which often maintains these vexations in 
full force, is the shame of owning to our want of 



[ i8o ] 

wisdom in the first instance. A man, playing in 
imagination his part in life, always, like the story- 
books, makes his hero successful in the end : and, 
therefore, in real life, he is immensely disturbed and 
humiliated at finding that such is the devilry of 
circumstances, that if he only gives a little inlet to 
mischance by folly or incautiousness of any kind, he 
is sometimes invaded by a flood of evil. 

He bears this in secret, struggling with all his might 
and eating his own heart, as it were, rather than own 
to the folly he committed at first. Nothing less will 
satisfy him than to retrieve the whole misfortune, and 
cancel by success his first error. Thus we come to 
one more instance of the truth that Pride applies the 
scourge more frequently and with far heavier hand 
than Penitence ; with the hand, in fact, of another. 

As regards the " career of small anxieties," which I 
spoke of above, one great art of managing with them, 
is to cease thinking about them just at that point 
where thought becomes morbid. It will not do to say 
that such anxieties may not demand some thought, 
and, occasionally, much thought. But there comes a 
time when thought is wasted- upon these anxieties ; 
when you find yourself in your thoughts going over 
the same ground again and again to no purpose, 
deepening annoyance instead of enlarging insight and 



[ i8i j 

providing remedy. Then the thing would be to be 
able to speak to these fretting little cares, like Lord 
Burleigh to his gown of state, when he took it off for 
the night, " Lie there, Lord Treasurer." 

It must be remembered though that his cares, 
assured as he was of his mistress's favour, were for 
the most part mere business cares, and did not 
exactly correspond with the small anxieties which I 
was speaking of. These are very hard, I suspect, to 
dismiss. Perhaps the best way of getting rid of them 
is not to attempt too much at once, but at least to 
change the cares, so as not to let one set prey upon 
the mind and make it become morbid — just as 
Newton, unable to go abruptly from his high, 
absorbing thoughts to what most men would consider 
recreation, merely adopted a change of study, and 
found his relief therein. 

There is often a very keen annoyance suffered by 
sensitive and high-minded people, arising from dis- 
satisfaction with their own work, I should be very 
sorry to say anything that would seem like encourage- 
ment to slight or unconscientious working, but to the 
anxious, truth-seeking, high-minded, fastidious man, I 
would sometimes venture to say, " My good friend, if 
we could work out our ideal, we should be angels. 
There is eternity to do it in. But now come down 



[ i82 ] 

from your pedestal, and do not overfret yourself, 
because your hand, or your mind, or your soul, will 
not fulfil all that you would have it. There have 
been men before you, and probably will come others 
after you, whose deeds, however much approved of 
by the general voice, seemed, or will seem, to the 
men themselves little better than a caricature of their 
aspirations." 

How much, by the way, accomplishments of various 
kinds would come in to help men to get rid of over- 
riding small cares and petty anxieties. These accom- 
plishments mostly appeal to another world of thought 
and feeling than that in which the little troubles were 
bred. The studious, the busy, and the sorrowful 
might find in art a change of thought which nothing 
else, at least of worldly things, could give them. And 
the accomplishments I mean would be of use on 
occasions when there is no need, and where it is 
scarcely fitting to summon forth the solemn aid of 
religion or philosophy. Not that I would have such 
aid far distant from any mind, or on any occasion : 
for there is a comfort and a sobriety of mind to be 
gained from the great topics of consolation which 
nothing else can surely give. 

In considering various forms of unhappiness, which 



[ 1*3 ] 

has been the business of this chapter, for the purpose 
of providing some small aids and consolations, one 
form has occurred to me which is not uncommon, I 
imagine. 

It is where an almost infinite regret enters the 
mind at some happiness having been missed which 
in imagination seems the one possible present good 
to the person indulging the imagination : and the 
men or women in this sad case go on all their days 
mourning or fretting for want of that imagined 
felicity. This must often occur in the midst of great 
seeming prosperity, which deepens the vexation, and 
gives an air of especial mockery to it. 

To find consolation for this state of mind may 
not be easy ; still there are medicaments even for it. 
Imagine the happiness in question gained, fond 
dreamer ; do you not already see some diminution 
of the happiness itself? — it will only be from lack of 
imagination if you do not — but at any rate do you 
not at least perceive how many fears such happi- 
ness would throw you open to ? "Ah, Davy," said 
Johnson to Garrick, after going over his new house 
and looking at the fine things there, " these are the 
things that make a deathbed terrible." 

Every felicity, indeed, as well as wife and children, 
is a hostage to Fortune. 



[ 1*4 ] 

Lastly, there is to be said of all suffering that it is 
experience. I have forgotten in whose life it is to be 
found, but there is some man who went out of his 
way to provide himself with every form of human 
misery which he could get at. I do not, myself, see 
any occasion for any man's going out of the way to 
provide misfortune for himself. Like an eminent 
physician he might stay at home, and find almost 
every form of human misery knocking at his door. 
But still I understand what this chivalrous inquirer 
meant, who sought to taste all suffering for the sake 
of the experience it would give him. 

There is this admirable commonplace, too, which, 
from long habit of being introduced in such dis- 
courses, wishes to come in before I conclude; namely, 
that infelicities of various kinds belong to the state 
here below. Who are we that we should not take 
our share ? See the slight amount of personal happi- 
ness requisite to go on with. In noisome dungeons, 
subject to studied tortures, in abject and shifty 
poverty, after consummate shame, upon tremendous 
change of fortune, in the profoundest desolation of 
mind and soul, in forced companionship with all that 
is unlovely and uncongenial, men, persevering nobly, 
live on, and live through it all. The mind, like water, 
as described in that beautiful passage in Metastasio, 



[ i»5 ] 

which I will transcribe below, passes through all 
states, till it shall be united to what it is ever seeking. 
The very loneliness of man here is the greatest proof, 
to my mind, of a God. 

" L'onda dal mar divisa 
Bagna la valle e'l monte ; 
Va passeggiera 
In flume, 
Va prigioniera 
In fonte, 

Mormora sempre e geme, 
Fin che non torna al mar ; 

Al mar dov' ella nacque, 
Dove acquisto gli umori, 
Dove da' lunghi errori 

Spera di riposar." 

Such were my thoughts this wet day, which I had 
made up my mind was to be a dreary day throughout ; 
but I had hardly come to the end of what I had to 
say, when (may it be a good omen that the chapter 
itself may bring some cheer to some one in distress), 
the sun peeped out, the drops of rain upon the leaves 
glistened in the sunshine like afflictions beautified by 
heavenly thoughts, and all Nature invited me out to 
enjoy the gladness of her aspect, more glad by con- 
trast with her former friendly gloom. 



CHAPTER XL 

THE sun came out brilliantly this morning. To 
be sure, there was a chilliness in the air ; but 
if you walked about with vigour, and said it was a 
charming morning, it gradually became so. An 
eccentric friend of mine, of the Johnsonian school, 
maintains that all kinds of weather may be treated in 
a similar manner, and says, that if a man will go out 
in the rain without any defence and pretend to know 
nothing about the showers, the rain will cease for 
him, each drop exclaiming, " It is no use raining 
upon that man, he does not mind it." Whether my 
friend has a moral meaning to this fable of his, I do 
not know; and, indeed, it is difficult to sound the 
depths of some men's humour, the deepest part of 
their nature. 

As I walked up and down under the shelter of a 
wall, so that I might have the full benefit of the sun's 
rays, I could not help thinking that the sun had been 
very little worshipped by idolaters. In fact, he is too 
manifest a benefactor to be much idolised. More- 



[ i8 7 ] 

over, what the natural man likes to worship, is some 
ugly little idol, an incarnation of one or other of his 
own bad passions. I suppose the real explanation is, 
that the form of the sun being a simple one, essentially 
belonging to the inanimate world, provoked no desire 
to worship, and left no room for sufficient mystery. 
So, after all, it is perhaps a proof of the craving 
imagination of mankind that the sun has had, com- 
paratively speaking, but few worshippers, while an 
ungainly stone, or a thing with many hands and legs, 
has enjoyed the tenderest adoration. 

Then I thought if our senses were finer, what an 
exquisite sight it would be, to behold all the inani- 
mate world turning gently to the sun each day ; a 
fact which we only perceive in the results of such 
fond looks for many years, as exhibited in the growth 
of trees : whereas, if our senses w r ere more delicately 
apprehensive, we might see every leaf, bud, and twig 
making its little way towards the light, and all nature, 
like one sunflower, bending slightly forwards in a sup- 
plicating attitude to the sun. 

Warming with the subject Iexclaimed, This is quite 
an Italian sky — rather home-made, was the disparaging 
second thought. In such a mood it was very natural 
to think of foreign travel. I looked at the fig-trees 
against the wall, and felt that they must be rather 



[ i88 ] 

disgusted at the climate which needed such a position 
for them. However, said I, it is only what the 
greatest men have had to endure, to live in an 
uncongenial clime, and to bring forth fruit with pain- 
ful culture and under most adverse circumstances ; 
so you must not complain, though you are nailed up 
against the wall. On went my mind to a particular 
fig-tree near Cordova, from thence down the Guadal- 
quiver; when I saw again the' beautiful birds come 
out of the sandy banks of the river ; and, in truth, 
I was in a full career of travel, when it occurred 
to me that I had often thought many things about 
travelling, and that it might be useful to put them 
together. So, walking up and down, like a peripa- 
tetic philosopher, only with no disciples (which, by 
the way, is a safer thing for the discovery of truth), I 
put into some order the following remarks on travel. 

A journey has often been compared to a life. I 
suppose that in any comparison so frequently used 
there must be some aptitude ; but it does not strike 
me. Any one day is like a life, is indeed an epitome 
of it : morning, noon, evening, awaking and going to 
sleep, have all the closest analogy with the progress 
of a life. But a journey is often very dissimilar to a 
life. In travelling, for instance, for pleasure, you go 



[ i8 9 ] 

out with much hope of delight : the delight is partly 
realised; but there is much that is untoward, and 
which, at the time, prevents a thorough enjoyment 
and appreciation of what you do see. You return 
with joy, and the journey is afterwards stored up in 
the memory as a complete pleasure ; all the mishaps 
being put into what the Dutch call "the forget 
book," or only remembered as interesting incidents. 
Clearly, one of the main delights is in the recollection. 
Now, we cannot venture to say whether that will be 
the case with the journey of life. There does not 
appear much promise of that. 

I took a turn up and down the garden, and thought 
over that last suggestion, which is a very serious one. 
Soon, however, I returned to the subject of travelling. 

Yes, I said to myself, certainly there is great plea- 
sure in coming back after a tour (which, by the way, 
may be another great difference between these jour- 
neys and the journey of life) ; at least I know I am 
always glad to come back to that great, silent, unex- 
pectorating people to whom I belong — upon whose 
dominions the sun never sets, who ftre very powerful 
and somewhat dull ; free as far as constitutions and 
forms of government go, but as slavish as any other 
nation to the great tyrants, custom and public 
opinion ; a people, indeed, who do not enjoy any 



[ i9° ] 

exuberant felicity, but who have humour enough to 
see their faults and shortcomings, which is some 
alleviation. 

But to descend more to particulars about travelling. 
The first thing is in the preparation for it ; the mental 
preparation, I mean. In this preparation lies some 
of the greatest utility and of the greatest pleasure con- 
nected with travelling. And without this preparation 
what a small thing travel would be ! What is it to see 
some tomb, when the name of the inmate is merely 
a pompous sound — the name of an unknown king, 
duke, or emperor — compared with what it is to see 
the tomb of one whose fortunes you have studied, 
who is a favourite with you, who represents yourself 
or what you would be, whose very name makes your 
blood stir ? The same thing, of course, applies in 
travel, to knowledge of the arts, sciences, and manu- 
factures. Knowledge is the best excitement and the 
truest reward for travel — at once the means and the 
end. A dignified and intelligent curiosity, how much 
it differs from mere inane lion-hunting; where the 
ignorant travelled gapes at wonders which the guides 
know far more about than he does. 

With regard to the mode of travelling, it is curious 
to compare the ancient with the modern ; the free yet 



[ i9i ] 

stately way of the former, the methodised yet undig- 
nified way of the latter. Imagine a traveller in former 
days setting off from the ancestral mansion leisurely,, 
on horseback. Within ten miles there might be an 
adventure; and throughout the journey, which had 
not been much cleared up by the accounts of former 
travellers, there must have been a constant feeling of 
doubt as to what was to happen next, and a conse- 
quent excitement a little like the feeling of a great 
discoverer in unknown lands seeking after the king- 
dom of Prester John, the El Dorado, or the fountain 
of perpetual youth; and not being certain any day 
that he might not come upon one of these wonders. 

I think it is possible to combine, occasionally, the 
advantages of modern and ancient travelling, espe- 
cially for the vigorous and healthy. 

In the plans and modes of travelling, the question 
of companionship comes first. And, by the way, what 
a hint it might give many a young man of the diffi- 
culties to be conquered in domestic companionship, 
when he finds how hard it is to agree with his fellows 
in travel for a few short weeks. All the difficulties 
attendant upon companionship occur in this case of 
travelling. Indeed, the first question is, whether you 
should journey alone, solitary and unmolested ; or 
with one other, when the want of profound sympathy 



[ J 92 ] 

and the wish to quarrel will be very painful ; or with 
two or three, when the quarrelling can better break 
out and the companions separate into factions. The 
advantages and disadvantages are so nearly equivalent 
that the traveller will probably condemn and regret 
whichever course he takes, and, therefore, may take 
any one without much concern. To the very serious 
reader I may mention that the above description is 
not given quite in earnest, but it points to what are 
some of the prominent dangers of companionship. 
Really it is disgraceful that men are so ill-taught and 
unprepared for social life as they are, often turning 
their best energies, their acquisitions, and their special 
advantages into means of annoyance to those with 
whom they live. Some day it will be found out that 
to bring up a man with a genial nature, a good 
temper, and a happy form of mind, is a greater effort 
than to perfect him in much knowledge and many 
accomplishments. Then we might have that tolerance 
of other people's pursuits, that absence of disputa- 
tiousness, and that freedom from small fussiness, which 
would render a companion a certain gain. It will 
not be desirable, however, to wait till that period 
before we begin our travels. 

The advantages of travel are very various and very 



[ x 93 ] 

numerous. I have already put the knowledge to be 
gained as one of them. But this is for the young and 
the unworn. A far greater advantage is in the repose 
of mind which travelling often gives, where nothing 
else could. It seems rather hard, though, that all our 
boasted philosophy cannot do what a little change of 
place so easily effects. It is by no magical property, 
however, that travelling does this. It is merely that 
by this change things assume their right proportions. 
The nightmares of care and trouble cease to weigh 
as if they were the only things of weight in the 
world. 

I know one who finds somewhat of the same ad- 
vantage in looking at the stars. He says, it suggests 
a welcome change of country. Indeed, he maintains 
that the aspect of these glorious worlds might somewhat 
comfort a man even under remorse. 

Again a man's own land is a serious place to him, 
or at least has a possible seriousness about it, which 
is like a cloud that may at any moment come over 
the spot he is occupying. 

There he has known the sweetness and the bitter- 
ness of early loves, early friendships. There, mayhap, 
he has suffered one of those vast bereavements which 
was like a tearing away of a 'part of his own soul: 



[ J 94 ] 

when he thought each noise in the house, hearing 
noises that he never heard before, must be something 
they were doing in the room — the room — where lay 
all that was mortal of some one inexpressibly dear 
to him; when he awoke morning after morning to 
struggle with a grief which seemed as new, as appal- 
ling, and as large as on the first day ; which, indeed, 
being part of himself and thus partaking of his 
renovated powers, rose equipped with what rest, or 
alacrity, sleep had given him j and sank, unconquered, 
only when he was too wearied in body and mind to 
attend to it, or to anything. 

The places where he has felt such sorrows may be 
the dearest in the world to him, may be sure to 
win him back to them ; but they cannot always be 
regarded in that easy, disengaged way which is neces- 
sary for perfect recreation. 

This, then, is one of the advantages of travel, that 
we come upon new ground, which we tread lightly, 
which is free from associations that claim too deep 
and constant an interest from us; and, not resting 
long in any one place, but travelling onwards, we 
maintain that desirable lightness of mind : we are 
spectators, having for the time no duties, no ties, no 
associations, no responsibilities ; nothing to do but to 
look on, and look fairly. 



[ 195 ] 

Another of the great advantages of travel lies in 
what you learn from your companions : not merely 
from those you set out with, or so much from them, 
as from those whom you are thrown together with on 
the journey. I reckon this advantage to be so great, 
that I should be inclined to say, that you often get 
more from your companions in travel than from all 
you come to see. 

People imagine they are not known, and that 
they shall never meet again with the same company 
(which is very likely so); they are free for the time 
from the trammels of their business, profession, or 
calling; the marks of the harness begin to wear 
out ; and altogether they talk more like men than 
slaves with their several functions hanging like col- 
lars round their necks. An ordinary man on travel 
will sometimes talk like a great imaginative man at 
home, for such are never utterly enslaved by their 
functions. 

Then the diversities of character you meet with 
instruct and delight you. The variety in language, 
dress, behaviour, religious ceremonies, mode of life, 
amusement, arts, climate, government, lays hold of 
your attention, and takes you out of the wheel-tracks 
of your everyday cares. He must, indeed, be either 
an angel of constancy and perseverance, or a wonder- 



[ >96 ] 

fully obtuse Caliban of a man, who, amidst all this 
change, can maintain his private griefs or vexations 
exactly in the same place they held in his heart while 
he was packing for his journey. 

The change of language is alone a great delight. 
You pass along, living only with gentlemen and 
scholars, for you rarely detect what is vulgar, or 
inept, in the talk around you. Children's talk in 
another language is not childish to you ; and, indeed, 
everything is literature, from the announcement at a 
railway station to the advertisements in a newspaper. 
Read the Bible in another tongue; and you will 
perhaps find a beauty in it you have not thoroughly 
appreciated for years before. 

As regards the enjoyments of travel, I should be 
sorry to say anything pedantic about them. They 
must vary so much according to the nature of the 
individual. In my view, they are to be found in the 
chance delights rather than in the official part of 
travelling. I go through a picture-gallery, enjoying 
with instructed and well-regulated satisfaction all the 
things I ought to enjoy. Down in the recesses of my 
mind, not communicated perhaps to any of my com- 
panions, is a secret hope that the room I see in the 
distance is really the last in the building, and that I 



[ 197 ] 

shall have to go through no more. It is a warm day, 
and, stepping out upon a balcony for a moment, I see 
a young girl carefully helping her infirm mother out 
of church and playfully insisting on carrying the 
market burdens of both, far too heavy for her little 
self. I watch the pair to the corner of the street, and 
then turn back to see the pictures which must be seen. 
But the pictures will fade from my memory sooner 
than this little scene which I saw from the balcony. 
I have put that by for my private gallery. Doubtless, 
we need not leave our own country to see much that 
is most beautiful in nature and in conduct \ but we 
are often far too much engaged, and too unobservant, 
to see it. 

Then there is the new climate. How exquisite the 
mere sensation of warmth is to many persons ! Then 
there is the stroll in the market-place, or the sight of 
the harbour, or the procession, or the guard-house — 
in short, the aspect of all those ordinary, but, in a 
strange country, unfamiliar things which, happily, no 
hand-book need dilate upon, or even point out, but 
which men are perverse enough to like all the better 
for that. 

The benefits which arise from making the inhabitants 
of different nations acquainted with one another may 



[ 198 ] 

be considerable. How many things there are to be 
learnt on both sides : and how slow men are in 
copying the good from each other. An evil custom 
or a dubious one, or a disease, mental, moral, or 
physical, how rapidly it spreads over the earth ! Evil 
is winged. How slowly any contrivance for cleanliness, 
or decorum, or good order, makes its way. If it were 
not that good by its nature is enduring, and evil by 
its nature transitory, there would be but little chance 
for the welfare of the world. 

In contemplating different nations, the traveller 
learns that their differences are very great, and yet 
how small when compared with their resemblances. 
That intensity of dislike which arises at these small 
differences, and which even the most philosophical 
minds are apt at times to feel, is a great proof of the 
tyrannous nature of the human heart, which would 
have every other creature cut out exactly after its own 
pattern. 

One of the things to be most noted by an English- 
man in travelling, is the remarkable difference, as it 
seems to me, between our own and other nations in 
the amusements of the people. We are the people 
who have sent out our efforts to the uttermost parts 
of the earth, and yet a great deal of our own life at 
home is very barren and uncultivated. When I have 



[ *99 ] 

been watching the gamesomeness of other people, it 
has often saddened me to think of the poverty of 
resources in my own country in that way. Shows 
alone will not do. Pictures are good in their way, 
but what is wanted is something in which people 
themselves are engaged. Indeed, more persons are 
amused, and rightly so, in playing at bowls than in 
looking at Raphaels, Murillos, or Titians. Those who 
are most amused, if one may use such a word, in 
contemplating these great works, are those in whom 
the works produce a secret feeling of power to create 
the like — I do not say, like pictures or even like works 
of art, but something great, if only great destruction — ■ 
in fact, where the works elicit the sympathy of kindred 
genius. But for the amusements of the people, some- 
thing on a very broad and general basis must be 
sought for. 

Returning, however, to the special subject of 
travelling, which I am now considering, it is worth 
notice that there is no occasion for being excessively 
emulous, or haste-bitten, in travelling any more than 
in other occupations of life. Let no truly observant 
man feel the least envious, or disconcerted, when he 
hears others talk familiarly of cities which are dream- 
land to him, the names of which are poetry in his 
mind. Many of these men never have seen, and 



[ 200 

never can see anything, as he can see it. The wise 
do not hurry without good reason. A judicious 
traveller tells me that he once went to see one of the 
greatest wonders of the world. He gazed and gazed, 
each minute saw more, and might have gone on seeing 
into the thing for weeks, he said. Two regular tourists 
walked in, glanced about them, and almost before he 
could look round, they were gone. They will say, 
they saw what there was to be seen. Poor fellows ! 
Other men might have instructed them : now they 
will have their own misconceptions, arising from hasty 
impressions, to contend with. 

I must say, though, that anything is better than 
insincerity in the way of admiration. If we do not 
care about what we see, let us not pretend to do so. 
We do not come out to tell lies, but rather to get 
away from falsehood of all kinds. 

There is also an observation to be made with 
respect to the enjoyment of the beauties of natural 
scenery, which applies not only to travelling, but is 
of very general application ; namely, that we should 
enjoy and make much of that which comes in our 
way on everyday occasions. While it may be well 
worth the while of the lover of nature to be curious in 
looking after rocks, rivers, mountains, and waterfalls, 



[ 201 ] 

yet the obvious, everyday beauties of nature are not 
to be disregarded. Perhaps the short hasty gazes 
cast up any day in the midst of business in a dense 
city at the heavens, or at a bit of a tree seen amid 
buildings, — gazes which partake almost more of a 
sigh than a look, have in them more of intense 
appreciation of the beauties of nature than all that 
has been felt by an equal number of sight-seers, 
enjoying large opportunity of seeing, and all their 
time to themselves. Like a prayer offered up in the 
midst of everyday life, these short, fond gazes at 
nature have something inconceivably soothing and 
beautiful in them. There is a remark by an exquisite 
observer and very subtle, often very profound, thinker, 
which indeed suggested the above thoughts, though 
w T e have each turned the thing a different way, he 
looking at a certain unreality in nature, and I con- 
sidering the combination of the upturned look to 
nature with the ordinary, earthly life of man. " But 
this beauty of nature/' he says, "which is seen and 
felt as beauty, is the least part. The shows of the 
day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, mountains, 
orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in 
still water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, be- 
come shows merely, and mock us with their unreality. 
Go out of the house to see the moon, and 'tis mere 



202 

tinsel, it will not please us when its light shines upon 
your necessary journey." * 

There is this, too, to be said, that this habitual 
appreciation of nature on everyday occasions may 
prevent your missing the very highest beauties ; for 
what you go to see as a sight, may never be shown to 
you under most favourable circumstances ; whereas a 
much inferior scene may be combined with such 
accidental circumstances of beauty as in reality to be 
the finest thing you will ever have an opportunity of 
beholding. We must not be altogether captivated by 
great names : the sincere, clear-sighted man is not ; 
and has his reward for his independence of mind, in 
seeing many beauties in man and nature, which 
escape the perception of those who see by book 
alone. 

Before quitting the subject of travelling, I cannot 
help making a remark which has often occurred to 
me, but which, however, has regard, not so much to 
the travellers, as to those they travel amongst. It 
concerns all those who preside over coach-offices, 
diligence-offices, post-offices, and custom-houses. 
What a fine opportunity such people have, it seems 

* Emerson. Nature — Chapter on Beauty of. 



[ 2 °3 ] 

to me, to manifest a Christian temper. It is tire- 
some to you, O postmaster, to be asked all manner of 
questions, of which you cannot see the drift, or which 
you think you have answered in your first reply ; but 
the poor inquirer is far from home ; he has but a dim 
understanding of your language, still dimmer of your 
customs ; his little daughter is ill at home, perhaps ; 
he wants to be assured by hearing again what you 
said, even if he thought he understood the meaning 
at first : and you should be good-natured and 
voluminous in your replies. Besides, you must 
bethink yourself, that what is so simple to you as 
your daily transactions, may nevertheless be some- 
what complicated, and hard to understand, especially 
to a foreign mind. You might, I think, carry in your 
mind an imaginary affiche, which you should see 
before you on the wall which fronts you as you 
address your applicants. 



ADVICE TO MEN IN SMALL AUTHORITY. 

"It is a great privilege to have an opportunity 
many times in a day, in the course of your business, 
to do a real kindness which is not to be paid for. 
Graciousness of demeanour is a large part of the duty 
of any official person who comes in contact with the 



[ 204 ] 

world. Where a man's business is, there is the ground 
for his religion to manifest itself." 

And we travellers, on our parts, if only from an 
anxiety to give other nations a good opinion of ours, 
should beware of showing insolence, or impertinence, 
to those who give us welcome. The relation of host 
and guest should never be quite effaced from the mind 
of either party. 



CHAPTER XII. 

I WANDERED about amongst the young trees 
this morning, looking at their different shades 
of green, and I thought if they, drinking from the 
same soil and the same air, and standing still in the 
same spot, showed such infinite varieties, what might 
be expected from men. Then I thought of the 
anecdote of Charles V. in retirement, endeavouring in 
vain to make his watches keep time together, and the 
inference he drew therefrom of the difficulty of making 
men think alike upon religious matters. Ah, when it 
once comes to thinking, good-by to anything like 
strict agreement amongst men. 

But always amongst my thoughts to-day came that 
of the death of Sir Robert Peel, which I heard of last 
night. * Sad ! sad ! such a sorry death for so great a 
man — and, as we men should say, so inopportune. I 
had hoped, as I have no doubt many others who take 
an interest in public affairs had done, that he would 

* July, 1850. 



\ 206 ] 

have remained as a great power aloof from party, "a 
weight of private opinion, if we may say so, which 
should come in at the most important times, to 
declare what is thought by the impartial bystander ; 
who, I should say (varying the common proverb), 
does not see most of the game, but sees things which 
the players do not see. Then I thought of his ways, 
which had often amused me, and which I had learned 
to like ; of his exquisite adroitness ; of the dignity of 
the man ; of the humanity, and of what always struck 
me so forcibly — of his amenability to good reasoning 
from whatever quarter it came. 

Then I thought of what I am often meditating 
upon — how the government of this country might be 
improved. 

There is no doubt that our constitution is a great 
thing, the result of long struggle and labour of all 
kinds ; but still how much its working might be 
amended ; and it is to that amendment that the atten- 
tion of thoughtful men ought to be directed. Let us 
look at the matter frankly on all sides. 

It is a great advantage that affairs are long con- 
sidered in this country. 

It is a great advantage that scarcely any shade of 
opinion is without a hearing in the great assemblies 
of this country. 



[ 207 ] 

It is a great advantage that a number of persons 
are exercised in public business ; and that our pros- 
perity and advancement do not depend on one man, 
or even a few men. 

It is a great advantage that grievances are sure to 
be discussed. 

On the other hand, let us honestly allow that it is 
a great evil, that the choice of men to fill the most 
important offices should be chiefly limited to parlia- 
mentary men. 

It is a great evil that honours and places should be 
confined to them and theirs : why should a man be 
made a peer because he has failed in an election, or 
a baronet because his vote is much wanted? Such 
things are too bad, and must be put a stop to. 

It is a great evil that no good measures can be 
carried swiftly — so that remedies often come too late. 

What an improvement it would be if peerages for 
life were permitted. It would, in my opinion, supply 
the House of Lords with just that element of popular 
influence which is wanted. 

And so, again, of official seats in the House of 
Commons : what a benefit it would be if just men could 
be put there occasionally, whom the w^orld would be 
glad to listen to, but whom a constituency will not listen 
to, or who are not in a position to ask it to listen. 



[ 208 ] 

We must have many improvements in government. 
Questions are looming in the distance which will 
require the ablest minds in the country. If we ever 
become more sincere as individuals, we shall need to 
express that sincerity in political action. 

It seems to me there is vast room for improve- 
ment in many branches of government — in finance, 
in colonisation, in dealing with the poor, in the 
proceedings of the state as regards religion. For, 
whatever some of us may think or wish, religious 
questions of high import will not long be in the 
background. 

At present, the relations between people in power 
and the general intelligence of the country are not 
such as they might be. 

I know the difficulty of any sound reforms in 
government ; but if we never attempt any, they are 
sure at some time to be attempted by the clumsiest 
and coarsest mechanism. 

The loss of Sir Robert Peel is great indeed, I again 
exclaimed to myself, as I thought what an official 
reformer he might have been ; not reckless to change 
or blame, inclined to give due consideration to official 
persons — a class of men who amply deserve it — and 
carrying out reforms, not in a spirit of condemnation, 
but of desire for increased effectiveness and force. 



[ 2 °9 J 

What a loss in that man ! I will go and talk to 
Dunsford, I said, from whom one is always sure of 
sympathy and kindness. 

Without delay I began to turn my steps towards 
his parsonage, making my way along the lanes with 
lofty hedges, enjoying the scent of the sweet haw- 
thorn, and escaping, as far as might be, an east wind, 
which with a warm sun made a most unpleasant com- 
bination of weather ; the east wind, like some small 
private vexation, rendering the rest of one's pros- 
perity, not merely unpalatable, but ill-timed. 

As I went along, I thought of the Church of Eng- 
land, and of what might be its future fortunes. I have 
just been reading the works of two brothers; last 
night I ' had finished an elaborate attack from the 
Roman Catholic side upon the Anglican Church by 
one brother ; and this morning I had ' read a very 
skilful attack upon all present religious systems by 
another brother. And I thought to myself, the 
Church of England suffers from both attacks. 

One's acquaintances who meet one in the streets 

shrug their shoulders and exclaim, " What a state the 

Church is in ! Oh that these questions that divide it 

had never been raised." I do not agree with them, 

and sometimes I tell them so. If there are these 

great differences amongst thoughtful men about great 

o 



[ 2TO ] 

subjects, why should they (the differences) be stifled? 
Are we always to be walking' about as masked 
figures ? 

No doubt it is a sad thing that works of charity 
and mercy should be ever interrupted by indefinite 
disputes upon points which, when once taken up, are 
w T ith extreme difficulty settled well, or laid aside. 
But then, on the other hand, how much good is pre- 
vented by the continuance of insincerity, by an insin- 
cere adherence on the part of men to that which they 
believe not. Besides, it is not as if all went on 
smoothly now : how much, for instance, the cause 
of education suffers from the existence of religious 
differences ? 

Moreover, who can tell the general mischief pro- 
duced in all human affairs by degrading views of 
religion, which more thought might enlarge or dispel ? 
Men's laws and customs are merely their religion 
applied to life. And, again, what a pity it would be 
if controversy were abandoned to the weak or the 
controversial only : so that, even for the sake of peace, 
it may be good for a man not to suppress his thoughts 
upon religious subjects, if he has any. 

For my own part, it has long appeared to me that 
our Church stands upon foundations which need 
more breadth and solidity, both as regards the hold it 



[ 211 ] 

ought to have on the reason, and on the affection of 
its members. 

As to the hold upon the reason : suppose we were 
taught to study scientifically, up to a certain point, 
something that admitted of all the lights of study ; 
and were then called upon to take the rest for 
granted, not being allowed to use to the uttermost 
the lights of history and criticism which have been 
admitted at first : how very inconclusive the so-called 
conclusions would appear to us. It would be like 
placing a young forest tree in a hothouse and saying, 
" Grow so far, if you like, expand to the uttermost in 
this space allowed to you, but there is no more room 
after you have attained these limits ; thenceforward 
grow inwards, or downwards, or wither away." Our 
Church is too impersonal, if I may use that expres- 
sion : it belongs too much to books, set creeds and 
articles, and not enough to living men ; it does 
not admit easily of those modifications which life 
requires, and which guard life by adapting it to what 
it has to bear. 

Again, as regards affection, how can any but those 
who are naturally devout and affectionate, which is 
not the largest class, have an affectionate regard for 
anything which presents so cold and formal an 
appearance as the Church of England. The services 



[ 212 ] 

are too long ; and, for the most part, are surrounded 
by the most prosaic circumstances. Too many 
sermons are preached ; and yet, after all, too little 
is made of preaching. The preachers are apt to 
confine themselves to certain topics, which, however 
really great and solemn, are exhaustible : at least as 
far as men can tell us aught about them. Order, 
decency, cleanliness, propriety, and very often good 
sense, are to be seen in full force in Anglican 
Churches once a week ; but there is a deficiency of 
heartiness. 

The perfection to be aimed at, as it seems to me, 
as I have said before, would be a Church with a very 
simple creed, a very grand ritual, and a useful and 
devoted priesthood. But these combinations are only 
in Utopias, Blessed Islands, and other fabulous places ; 
no vessel enters their ports, for they are as yet only in 
the minds of thoughtful men. 

In forming such an imaginary Church, there cer- 
tainly are some things that might be adopted from 
the Roman Catholics. The other day I was at 
Rouen ; I went to see the grand old Cathedral ; the 
great western doors were thrown wide open right 
upon the market-place filled with flowers, and, in the 
centre aisle, not before any image, a poor woman and 



r z\*i i 

her child were praying. I was only there a few 
minutes, and these two figures remained impressed 
upon my mind. It is surely very good that the poor 
should have some place free from the restraints, the 
interruptions, the familiarity, and the squalidness of 
home, where they may think a great thought, utter a 
lonely sigh, a fervent prayer, an inward wail. And 
the rich need the same thing too. 

Protestantism, when it shuts up its churches, or 
allows discreditable twopences to be paid at the door, 
cannot be said to show w T ell in these matters." In 
becoming so nice and neat, it seems to have brushed 
away a great deal of meaning and usefulness with the 
dirt and irregularity. 

The great difficulty in reforming any Church lies, of 
course, in the ignorance of its members. Moreover, 
there may be great indifference to any Church, or 
dissatisfaction with it, amongst its members; but then 
people say to themselves, if we touch this or that 
thing which we disapprove of, we do not know what 
harm we may not be doing to people of less insight 
or less caution than ourselves; and so they go on, 
content with a very rude attempt indeed at com- 
munion in spiritual matters, provided they do not, as 
they would say, unsettle their neighbours. There is 
something good and humble in this ; there is some- 



[ 2I 4 ] 

thing also of indifference : if our ancestors had always 
been content with silent protests against the things 
they disapproved of, we might have been in a worse 
position than we are now. 

To lay down any guidance for action in this matter 
is very difficult indeed. According to the usual 
course of human affairs, some crisis will probably 
occur, which nobody foresees, and then men will 
be obliged to speak and act boldly.' It behoves 
them to bethink themselves, from time to time, 
of whither they are tending in these all-important 
matters. 

The intellectual energies of cultivated men want 
directing to the great questions. If there is doubt in 
any matter, shall we not examine ? Instead of that, 
men shut their thoughts up, and pretend to be 
orthodox — play at being orthodox. Meanwhile, what 
an evil it must be to the Church, if through un- 
necessary articles of faith, some of the best men are 
prevented from becoming clergymen, and many of 
the laity rendered less hearty members than they 
otherwise would be, of the Church. 

Dwelling upon such thoughts, which are full of 
pain and anxiety — the thoughts of one who is always 
desirous to make the best of anything that is before 
him, and who is well aware how hard it is to reform 



[ 215 ] 

anything from without — I reached Dunsford's quiet 
little parsonage. 

I found my old friend sitting in his garden in the 
very spot where I expected to find him, and for which 
I made my way without going through the house. In 
the middle of his kitchen-garden he has placed his 
beehives, and has surrounded them by a semicircle 
of juniper-trees about five feet high. In front of the 
beehives is a garden-seat, upon which I found him 
sitting and reciting Latin poetry to himself, which I 
had no difficulty in discerning, though I could not 
hear the words, to be from his favourite author, Virgil. 
Ellesmere, who views everything in a droll sarcastic 
way, says that our friend has chosen this particular 
seat in his garden from its being likely to be the 
place least disturbed by his sister and his curate. 
Though very good people, they are somewhat fussy, 
and given to needless gesticulation, which the bees 
dislike, and occasionally express their dislike in a 
very tangible manner. This spot, therefore, which 
is guarded by thousands of little soldiers, well-armed 
and well-equipped, distinguished from their human 
prototypes by gaining supplies and not by wasting 
them, affords a very secure retreat for our friend, 
where he can talk Virgil to himself for half an hour 
on a sunny morning. 



[ *i6 ] 

It was not altogether without trepidation that I 
took my seat by his side amidst innumerable buzzings 
and whizzings ; but he assured me with a smile that 
the bees would not hurt me, and in a minute or two 
their presence was only like a murmur of the distant 
wind through the trees. 

I began at once to narrate to Dunsford the melan- 
choly circumstances of Sir Robert Peel's death, which 
he had not heard of before, and which affected him 
deeply. Naturally his emotion increased my own. 
After I had told him the sad story, and answered his 
various questions about it, we remained silent for a 
time. I looked at the bees and thought of Manchester 
and other of the great hives and marts of industry : 
Dunsford went on with his Virgil : at last we thus 
resumed our dialogue. 

Dunsford. I do not wonder, my dear Leonard, 
that you were much affected by Sir Robert's death. 
I always felt how much you ought to sympathise with 
him. Indeed, there are two or three minor points in 
which you often put me a little in mind of him. 

Milverton. It is strange I never heard you say so. 

Dunsford. I did not think you much admired him, 
or would feel pleased at being likened to him in any- 
thing. But this is what I mean, — it always appeared 
to me that he had the most peculiar appreciation of 



[ 217 ] 

the irrationality, and difficult to manage, of mankind. 
This was one of the things which made him so 
cautious. He never threw out his views or opinions 
till the moment when they were to be expressed in 
action. He did not want to provoke needless opposi- 
tion. In short it was clear that he had the keenest 
apprehension of the folly of the world : he was very 
obstinate withal, or, as I had better say, resolved : 
and very sensitive. He did nothing under the hope 
that it would pass easily, and cost him nothing to do ; 
and yet, at the same time, though he foresaw distinctly 
opposition and unreason and calumny, he felt them 
more perhaps than quite beseemed so wise and 
resolute a man when they did come. You best know 
whether I am right in attributing some of the same 
strength and some of the same weakness to the man 
who sits beside me. 

Milverton. I neither admit npr deny ; but surely. 
Dunsford, it is not unwise nor imprudent to expect 
to have every degree of irrationality to battle with in 
anything one may undertake ; and time is seldom lost 
in preparing to meet that irrationality ; or strength, in 
keeping one's projects long before one. This is not 
merely worldly wisdom : such conduct results from a 
deep care for the success of the project itself. 

Dunsford* Much of it is the result of temperament : 



[ 213 ] 

and temperament is a part of our nature sooner 
developed than almost any'other. How soon you see 
it in children, and how decisively marked ! 

Milverton. I cannot help thinking what a shrewd 
man you are, Dunsford, when you choose to be so. 
It is you who ought to conduct great law-cases, and 
write essays, instead of leaving such things to Elles- 
mere and myself, and pretending that you are the 
simple, unworldly, retired man, content to receive 
your impressions of men and things from your pupils. 
I suppose that watching these bees gives you a great 
insight into the management of states and the conduct 
of individuals. You recite Virgil to them, and they 
buzz into your ears bee-wisdom of the most refined 
kind. 

Dunsford. Talking of essays, may I ask, Mr Mil- 
verton, what you are about ? You have not been near 
me for some time, and I always construe your absence 
into some new work. 

Milverton. You are right in this case ; but I 
mostly avoid talking about w T hat I am doing, at least, 
till it is in some state of forwardness. Talking pre- 
vents doing. Silence is the great fellow-w T orkman. 

Dunsford. The bees ? 

Milverton. They buzz when they come home : 
they are silent enough at their work. Moreover, I 



[ 2IQ ] 

am beginning to care less and less about criticism 
during the progress of work, fearing less, you see, 
Dunsford, the irrationality of the world • for what you 
mainly aim to get at by listening to criticism is not so 
much what will be understood, as what will be mis- 
understood — and that misunderstanding arises some- 
times from your own error in thought, sometimes 
from bungling workmanship, sometimes from the 
irrationality of mankind ; or from some unfortunate 
combination of these various sources of error. My 
growing indifference to criticism, in fact the reason 
why my steps have not been bent so often lately in 
the direction of the Rectory, I would have you to 
believe, results, not from any increasing confidence in 
my own workmanship, but from my growing faith in 
the general rationality and kindliness of mankind. 

Dtmsfoi'd. Humph ! 

Milverton. Besides, my endeavours and aspirations 
are so humble — — 

Dunsford, Humph ! 

Milverton. You will agree with me when you see 
what I mean. They are so humble that they do not 
require all that adverse criticism and consequent 
moulding which more elaborate schemes might do. 
For instance, I believe in the indefinite improveability 
of ourselves and of evervthinsr around us. Do not be 



[ 220 ] 

frightened, and look up so strangely, Dunsford : I do 
not mean perfectibility. Now, if by way of carrying 
out this belief of mine, I had any scheme of social 
regeneration, in which everything and everybody was 
to be put in his or its right place, of course it would 
have been necessary for me to have come very often 
over to the Rectory, to drink in sound wisdom in the 
way of all kinds of comment, objection, and elabora- 
tion, from you and Lucy, and these wise bees. 

Dunsford. I declare, Milverton, when Eilesmere 
is not with us, you play both his part and your own : 
but go on. 

Milverton. No — but, seriously, my dear Dunsford, 
to go on with my schemes of improveability, I assure 
you they are on a very humble basis. Looking 
around, I see what slight things are often the real 
hindrances to the best endeavours of men. I would 
aim to take these hindrances out of a man's path. 
Mark you, I do not expect that he will therefore 
become a greater man, but he will certainly be able 
to act more like one. To descend to particulars, 
why I delight so much in sanatory reform is not 
so much in the thing itself, if I may say so, as in 
the additional power and freedom it gives to man- 
kind. I do not know what social arrangements 
will be good for the coming generation, what 



[ 221 ] 

churches will be best for them, what forms of legis- 
lation ; but I am sure that in whatever they do, they 
will be entangled with fewer difficulties, and will act 
more healthfully and wisely, if they are healthy men 
themselves. 

Dunsford. Good doctrine, I think. 

MUvertoii. In the same way I would seek to 
remove all manner of social disabilities ; always again 
with a view to the future, that the removal of these 
disabilities may give room for more freedom of 
thought and action. 

Dunsford. I do not quite understand this, but do 
not wait to explain : go on. 

Milverton. It is for the same reasons that I delight 
in education (and you know that I do not mean a 
small thing by education) because of its enabling 
powers, to use a legislative phrase. Here again I do 
not pretend to see what will become of people when 
educated, or to suggest the forms that such discipline 
will ultimately fit them for \ but I cannot but believe 
that it will make any people into material more malle- 
able in the hands of the wise and good — of those 
who should be, and who to a certain extent are, the 
leaders of each generation. Indeed, I believe that 
always as men become greater, they are more easy 
to deal with. 



222 

Dunsford. I begin to see what you would be at. 
Milverton. I conceive that as civilization advances, 
a thousand little complexities arise with it. To untie 
them in any way may be a humble effort, but seems 
to me a most needful one. What we are ever wanting 
is to give freedom without licence : to free a man from 

mean conformity 

Dunsford. By making him conform to something 
higher. I think, Milverton, I have assisted in pointing 
this out to you when I was afraid that you were 
making too much war upon conformity. 

Milverton. It is only one of many things, my dear 
friend, which I have learned from you. 

Dunsford. Thank you, my dear Leonard. I must 
say you have always been most willing to give more 
than due heed to anything your old tutor has said, 
with the exception of the advice he used to tender to 
you at College about getting up certain problems in 
the Differential and Integral Calculus. 

Milverto?i. And I wish I had listened to that 
advice also. 

Dunsford. But are you not a little afraid, my 
friend (not that I would say one word against any 
good purpose you may have), that with all your 
imaginary cultivation and enabling men to act more 
freely and wisely by the removal of small disabilities, 



[ 22 3 ] 

which yet I admit may be great hindrances : are you 
not afraid, that after all we shall advance into some- 
thing very tiresome, somewhat of a dead level, which 
observers even now say is very visible in the world- 
no great man, but a number of decent, ordinary, 
cultivated, commonplace persons? I believe I am 
now talking Ellesmere to you ; for, in reality, I prefer 
the advancement of the great mass of mankind to any 
pre-eminence of a few : but still I should like to hear 
what you have to say to this objection. 

Milverton. I am delighted that you have raised it. 
I suspect there is a great delusion in this matter. 
The notion that there is a dead level in modern times 
is a mistake : it is only that there are more eminences. 
Formerly, one class or kind of men made a noise in 
the world, or at least made the chief noise; and, 
looking across the hazy distances of time, we are 
deluded by great names. An Alexander, a Timour 
the Tartar, an Attila, a Charlemagne, loom large in 
the distance. There were not so many ways to pre- 
eminence then — added to which, I should be very 
slow to connect greatness of thought, or greatness of 
nature, with resounding deeds. 

Dunsford. Surely at the latter end of the fifteenth, 
and in the sixteenth century, there were unrivalled 
great men— a galaxy of them. 



[ 22 4 .] 

Milverton. Yes, I admit ; and no man looks up 
to some of the personages of that era with more 
reverence and regard than I do : and, moreover, 
I would not contend that there may not be an 
occasional galaxy, as you have termed it, of such 
men. But all I have to contend against is, that the 
tendency of modern cultivation is not necessary to 
bring men to a dead level, and to subdue all real 
greatness. 

Dunsford. But you must admit that there is a 
certain smallness in the men of our time, and a foolish 
hurry in their proceedings. 

Milverton, No : that is not exactly what we have 
reason to complain of, but rather a certain coldness, 
an undue care for respectability, and too much desire 
to be safe. One of our most observant men, who has 
seen a great deal of the world, and always desired to 
understand the generation under him as well as that 
which came before him, says, that the young men of 
the present day are better than the young men of his 
time ; but there is one thing that he complains of in 
them, and that is, their fear of ridicule. To a certain 
extent he is right, I think ; only I should modify his 
remark a little, and say, that it is not exactly that 
they fear ridicule, as they dislike to put themselves in 
such a position that they may justly be made ridiculous. 



[ "5 ] 

It is partly caution, partly fastidiousness, partly a fear 
of ridicule. 

Dunsford. Well, then, I think that each man is 
more isolated than he used to be. There is less of 
clanship, less of the rallying round men of force or 
genius. How very rare a thing it is for one man to 
devote himself to the purposes framed by another's 
mind, or to give evidence of something like devotion 
to his person. Yet this would often be the wisest and 
the noblest form of exertion. 

Milverton. But then there would be no originality, 
as they think, and there is now a diseased desire for 
originality, which is never to be got by the men who 
seek it. All the while the most original thing would 
be to be humble and subservient to great purposes, 
from whomsoever adopted. 

At the same time, I must say that, as far as I have 
observed, the young would be very devoted to for- 
ward the purposes of their elders and superiors, 
whether in parliament, in offices, or in any other 
functions of civil life : and I think that in our times, 
great fault has often been on the side of the elders in 
not making just use of the young talent lying every- 
where about them. 

Dunsford. That may be. 

Milverton. Indeed, Dunsford, it is not every one 



[ 226 ] 

who, like yourself, is anxious to elicit the powers, and 
to carry forward the purposes, of younger men. It 
requires a great deal of kind-hearted imagination to 
do that 

Dunsford. You make too much of this, Milverton. 
It is natural that I should care about my own pupils 
more than anything else. I live in their doings. 

Milverton. And in your new edition, that is to be, 
of the Second part of Algebra, as Ellesmere would 
say, if he were here : but to return to our subject, 
I will tell you, at least I will try and tell you, in a 
somewhat fanciful way, what I think of the whole 
matter. 

Have you ever known well a beautiful bit of natural 
scenery, before man has come to settle in it — a cliff 
near the sea, a mead near a lake, or the outskirts of 
a noble forest? If so, you recollect the delicately- 
rounded, gracefully-indented, or grotesquely out-jut- 
ting forms, which the rock, or the hill, or the margin of 
the waters, or the outskirts of the wood had taken — 
forms dear to the painter and the poet. (Here Lucy 
entered the enclosure where we were sitting.) 

Lucy. The painter and the poet — I am sure this 
is something which I may listen to, Mr Milverton ; 
may I not ? 

Milverton. There are few persons, Lucy, who 



[ 22 7 ] 

have more feeling for the works of painters and 
poets ; and so you have a right to hear anything that 
is to be said about them. (I then repeated to her the 
former part of the sentence.) You then, perhaps, 
after an interval of many years, pass by the same 
place. A number of square white houses, poor in 
form and questionable in design, deface the beautiful 
spot. The delicate impressions of nature are gone, 
and, in their stead, are the angular marks of men's 
handiwork. The painter hurries by the place; the 
poet, too, unless he is a very philosophic one, passes 
shuddering by. But, in reality, what forms of beauty, 
in conduct, in suffering, in endeavour; what tragedies, 
what romances ; what footprints, as it were, angelic 
and demoniac — now belong to that spot. It is true, 
we have lost wonderful lichens and those exquisitely- 
coloured mosses on the rocks which were the delight 
of the artist. Perhaps there are now ungainly initials 
in their place, illustrative, however, of a deeper poetry 
than ever was there before. But I grow too fanciful, 
and must descend to prosaic explanations. I mean, 
in short, that though there is more cultivation (which, 
it must be confessed, effaces somewhat of the natural 
rugged beauty of the scene), there is also more of 
a higher beauty which sits beside the other (plain 
prosaic cultivation) always, though oft unkenned by 



[ 228 ] 

mortal eyes. So, in the advancement of mankind, 
the great barbaric outlines are broken into, and 
defaced ; but a thousand new beauties, new delicacies, 
even new greatnesses, take their place. Nature is 
ever affluent in such things ; and this effect of cul- 
tivation is to be seen, not only in mankind, but 
in individual men. For instance, Dunsford, the very 
shyness and coldness of modern youth arises in some 
measure from the growth of tact and delicacy. But I 
need not explain further ; you see what I mean. 

Dunsford, I think I do ; and as it is a charitable 
view, I wish to think it a true one. But I could object 
to your metaphor, if I chose to do so. 

Lucy. And is it equally true, Mr Milverton, with 
the young ladies as with the young gentlemen ? 

Milverton. Why, my dear Lucy, the young ladies 
are always of course more in harmony with nature. 
Though women are more slavish to small convention- 
alities than men, the real advance of civilisation tells 
much less upon women than upon men. One, who 
knew them well, says that " The ideas of justice, of 
virtue, of vice, of goodness, of wickedness, float only 
on the surface of their souls (consequently the pre- 
vailing ideas amongst men on these subjects make 
comparatively little impression upon women), in the 
depths of which (their souls) they have Tamour 



[ 22 9 ] 

propre et 1' inter et personnel ' (I quote his very 
words) with all the energy of nature; and, more 
civilised than ourselves from without, they have 
remained true savages within; (plus civilisees que 
nous en dehors, elles sont reste'es de vraies sauvages 
en dedans)." 

Lucy. The man is a savage himself: he must be a 
French Mr Ellesmere. 

Milverton. They are daring words, certainly ; but 
perhaps they have a scintilla of truth in them. How- 
ever, I will come again some day, and endeavour 
to elucidate these things a little further. Now I 
see the bees are flocking homewards with well- 
laden thighs, and I, too, must go back to my 
hive, well-laden with the wisdom to be gained 
from the thoughtful trees and beautiful flowers of 
the Rectory. 

Dunsford. 

" Et fessae multa referunt se nocte minores, 
Crura thymo plense : pascuntur et arbuta passim, 
Et glaucas salices, casiamque crocumque rubentem, 
Et pinguem tiliam, et ferrugineos hyacinthos. 
Omnibus una quies operum, labor omnibus unus." 

Milverton. Now, Miss Lucy, you must translate. 

I know you do that with all your uncle's favourite 

bits : and to tell the truth, I have forgotten some of 

the words. What is tilia ? 



[ 2 3° ] 

Lucy. You must not be very critical then, if I do 
translate, and ask for every word to be rendered. 

Now homewards come, borne on the evening breeze, 

With heavy-laden thighs, the younger bees : 

Each in the arbutus has hid his head, 

In yellow willow-bloom, in crocus red, 

And the rich foliage which the lindens spread : 

One common labour each companion knows, 

And for the weary swarm is one repose. 

Milverton. A little liberal, Lucy, but it gives some 
of the sense of the passage, I think ; and you are a 
good girl for not making more fuss about letting me 
hear it. I really must go now ; so good-by. 

And so I walked homewards, thinking much of 
Dunsford's mild wisdom, and how beautiful it is to 
see old age gracefully filling its high vocation of a 
continually-enlarging sympathy with the young, and 
tolerance for them. As Goethe says, "A man has 
only to become old to be tolerant; I see no fault 
committed," he adds, "which I also might not have 
committed." But then it is a Goethe who is speaking. 
Dunsford has reached to the same level of toleration 
by sheer goodness of nature. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

ALONG, solitary ride enabled me to-day to 
bring to a conclusion a chapter which I had 
been thinking of for some time. It is difficult for 
a man, unless he is a perfect horseman, to think 
connectedly during a ride, which is the very reason 
why horse-exercise is so good for the studious and 
the busy; but the inspiriting nature of the exercise 
may enable the rider to overcome special points of 
difficulty in any subject he is thinking over. In 
truth, a subject of any magnitude requires to be 
thought over in all moods of mind ; and that alone 
is one great reason for maintaining thoughts long 
in mind, before expressing them in speech or 
writing, that they come to be considered and re- 
considered under all aspects, and to be modified 
by the various fortunes and states of temperament 
of the thinker. 

There is all the difference between the thoughts of 
a man who is plodding homewards on his own legs, 
under an umbrella, and those of the same man who, 



[ 2 3 2 ] 

on horseback, is springing over the elastic turf, 
careless whether wind or rain drives against him 
or not, that there was between the after-dinner 
and the next morning councils of the ancient 
Germans. 

And, indeed, the subject I was thinking of, needs 
to be considered in all weathers of the soul, for it 
is very large ; and if I could present to other minds 
what comes under this subject in mine, I should 
have said a good deal of all that I may have to say 
on most subjects. 

Without more introductory words, for a long 
introduction would be especially out of place in 
this case, the subject in question is the art of coming 
to an end. 

Almost all human affairs are tedious. Everything 
is too long. Visits, dinners, concerts, plays, speeches, 
pleadings, essays, sermons, are too long. Pleasure 
and business labour equally under this defect, or, as 
I should rather say, this fatal superabundance. 

It must not be supposed that tiresomeness belongs 
to virtue alone. Few people are more pedantic and 
tiresome than the vicious ; and I doubt whether if 
one were thrown on a desert island, and had only the 
means of rescuing Blair's works and many fictions of 
decidedly bad tendency, but thought to be amusing, 



[ 2 33 ] 

one would not exclaim, " Blair for ever ! " and hurl the 
fictions into their element, the water. 

But let us trace this lengthiness, not only in 
the results of men's works, but in their modes of 
operation. 

Which, of all defects, has been the one most fatal 
to a good style ? The not knowing when to come to 
an end. Take some inferior writer's works. Dismiss 
nearly all the adjectives ; when he uses many substan- 
tives, either in juxtaposition, or in some dependence 
on each other, reduce him to one ; do the same thing 
with the verbs ; finally, omit all the adverbs ; and you 
will, perhaps, find out that this writer had something 
to say, which you might never have discovered, if you 
had not removed the superfluous words. Indeed, in 
thinking of the kind of writing that is needed, I am 
reminded of a stanza in a wild Arab song, which 
runs thus — 

"* ' Terrible he rode along, 

With his Yemen sword for aid ; 
Ornament it carried none, 
But the notches on the blade." * 

So, in the best writing, only that is ornament which 

* See Taifs Magazine, July 1850, for what seems to be an 
admirable translation of a most remarkable poem " of an age 
earlier than that of Mahomet." 



[ 2 34 ] 

shows some service done, which has some dint of 
thought about it. 

Then there is a whole class of things which, though 
good in themselves, are often entirely spoilt by being 
carried out too far and inopportunely. Such are 
punctiliousness, neatness, order, labour of finish, and 
even accuracy. The man who does not know how to 
leave off, will make accuracy frivolous and vexatious. 
And so with all the rest of these good things, people 
often persevere with them so inaptly and so inoppor- 
tunely as to contravene all their real merits. Such 
people put me in mind of plants which, belonging to 
one country and having been brought to another, 
persist in flowering in those months in which they, or 
their ancestors, were used to flower in the old country. 
There is one in a garden near me which in February 
delights to show the same gay colours for a day or 
two here, in these northern climes, with which it was 
wont to indulge the far-off inhabitants of countries 
near the Black Sea. It is in vain that I have remon- 
strated with this precocious shrub about its showing 
its good qualities at so inappropriate a period ; and 
in fact it can make so good an answer to any man 
who thus addresses it, that, perhaps, it is better to say 
nothing and pass by, thinking only of our own faults 
in this respect — and then, indeed, the shrub will 



[ *35 ] 

not have flowered quite in vain, if it has been only for 
a single day. 

A similar error in not knowing when to leave off 
occurs in the exercise of the critical faculty, which 
some men use till they have deadened the creative : 
and, in like manner, men cavil and dissect and 
dispute till that which was merely meant as a means 
of discovering error and baffling false statement, 
becomes the only end they care about — the truth 
for them. 

But a far more important field for this error of 
superabundance is in the vices of mankind. If men 
had but known when to leave off, what would have 
become of ambition, avarice, gluttony, quarrelling, 
cruelty? Men go on conquering for conquering's 
sake, as they do hoarding for hoarding's sake. If it 
be true that Marlborough went on gaining needless 
victories, wasting uncalled-for blood and treasure, 
what a contemptible thing it is ! I say, "if" he did 
so, for but a little investigation into history shows one 
how grievously men have been misrepresented ; and, 
not having looked into the matter, I will not take the 
responsibility of the accus ation on myself. But the 
instance, if just, is an apt one ; and, certainly, there 
are many similar instances in great commanders to 



[ 2 3 6 ] 

bear it out. But what a contemptible application of 
talent it is, that a man should go on doing something 
very well which is not wanted, and should make work 
for himself that he may shine, or at least be occupied. 
It is absolutely childish. Such children have great 
conquerors been. 

It is a grand thing for a man to know when he has 
done his work. How majestic, for instance, is the 
retirement of Sylla, Diocletian, and Charles the Fifth. 
These men may not afford particularly spotless 
instances, but we must make the most of those 
we have. There are very few men who know how 
to quit any great office, or to divest themselves of 
any robe of power. 

How much, again, this error of not knowing when 
to leave off, pervades the various pursuits of men. 
How it is to be seen in art and literature ; how much 
too in various professions and various crafts. The 
end is lost sight of in a foolish exercise of some 
facility in dealing with the means ; as when a man 
goes on writing for writing's sake, having nothing 
more to tell us ; or when a man who exercises some 
craft moderately well for the sake of gain, confines 
himself to that craft and is a craftsman nowhere else, 
when the gain is no longer needful for him. 



[ 237 ] 

But it may be said, Why speak of the art of leaving 
off? the instances you have given might sometimes 
be put under the head of not knowing how to begin • 
or, at any rate, they might more legitimately come 
under the heads of the various evil passions and 
habits to which they seem to belong. I do not alto- 
gether deny this, but at the same time I wish to show 
that there is an art of leaving off which may be exer- 
cised independently, if I may so express it, of the 
various affections of the mind. 

This art will depend greatly upon a just apprecia- 
tion of form and proportion. Where this proportion 
is wanting in men's thoughts or lives, they become 
one-sided. The mind enters into a peculiar slavery, 
and hardens into a creature of mere habits and 
customs. The comparative youthfulness of men of 
genius, which has often been noticed, results from 
their having a finer sense of proportion than other 
men, which prevents their being enslaved by the 
things which gradually close up the avenues of the 
soul. They, on the contrary, hold to Nature till 
the last, and would* partake, in some measure, if it 
may be so, of her universality. 

I hardly know anything that serves to give us a 
greater notion of the importance of proportion than 
th^iact made known to us by chymistry, that but a 



[ * 3 8 1 

few elements mingled together in different proportions 
give things of the most different nature (as we sup- 
pose) and different efficiency. This fact, after a con- 
sideration of the infinitely great as appreciated by 
the telescope, and the infinitely small as divulged by 
the microscope, is to my mind the most significant 
in physics. 

I fear, without more explanation, I shall hardly 
make myself understood here. I mean that this fact 
in chymistry affords a high idea of the importance of 
proportion ; and the error we have been considering 
is one that mainly arises from disproportion. 

For instance, this want of power to leave off often 
shows an inadequate perception of the proportion 
which all proceedings here ought to bear to time. 
Everything is a function of time, as the mathema- 
ticians would well express it. Then only consider what 
needful demands there are on that time : what forms, 
compliments, civilities, offices of friendship, relation- 
ship, and duty, have to be transacted. Consider the 
interruptions of life. I have often thought how 
hardly these bear upon the best and most capable of 
men. Perhaps there are not many more than a 
thousand persons in the long roll of men who have 
done anything very great for mankind. Nations 
should have kept guard at their doors, as we fancy, 



[ 2 39 ] 

that they might work undisturbed; but, instead of 
that, domestic misery, poverty, error, and affliction 
of all kinds no doubt disturbed and distracted them— 
not without its enlightenment, and not perhaps to be 
wholly regretted for their sakes. But has any one 
thing so misled them and counteracted their abilities 
so much as this want of proportion I am speaking of, 
arising from their ignorance or inability to leave off ? 
which has limited their efforts to one thing — has 
made the warrior a warrior only, incapable of dealing 
with his conquests ; the statesman a man of business 
and devices only, so that he gains power but cannot 
govern ; the man of letters a master of phrases only \ 
the man of so-called science a man, like the Greek 
philosophers, who could only talk about science — 
skilful in that, but never having left off that talking to 
make a single experiment. 

But surely there might be a breadth of purpose and 
extent of pursuit without inane versatility. As things 
are, it is not often that you find any one who holds 
his art, accomplishment, function, or business, in an 
easy disengaged way, like a true gentleman, so that 
he can bear criticism upon his doings in it nobly or 
indifferently, who is other than a kind of pedagogue. 
Much more difficult is it to find a man who sees the 
work before him in its just proportions and does it, 



[ 2 4 o ] 

yet does not make out of his work an obstacle to 
his perception of what besides is good and needful ; 
and who keeps the avenues of his mind opdn to 
influences other than those which immediately sur- 
round him. 

I am ashamed when I think of the want of cultiva- 
tion even in those who are reckoned most cultivated 
people ; and not so much of their want of cultivation, 
as their want of the power of continuous cultivation. 
Few, therefore, can endure leisure, or in fact can 
carry other burthens than those which they have 
been used to — like mules accustomed to carry pan- 
niers or pack-saddles in mountainous countries, which 
steer their way when free from their burthens just as 
if they still bore them, allowing always the distance 
between the rocks and themselves which was neces- 
sary to clear their loaded panniers ; a mode of pro- 
ceeding which exceedingly alarms and astonishes the 
traveller mounted on these mules, till he understands 
the reason of it. Both men and mules are puzzled at 
having something new to undertake : and indeed the 
art of leaving off judiciously is but the art of begin- 
ning something else which needs to be done. 

But if there is anything in which the beauty and 
the wisdom of knowing when to leave off is parti- 



[ 2 4i ] 

cularly manifested, it is in behaviour. And how rare 
is beautiful behaviour; greatly by reason of the want 
of due proportion in the characters and objects of 
most persons, and from their want of some perception 
of the whole of things. Let any man run over in his 
mind the circle of his friends and acquaintances; also, 
if he is a well-read man, of those whom he has become 
acquainted with in history or biography ; and he will 
own how few are, or have been, persons of beautiful 
behaviour, of real greatness of mind. 

This greatness of mind which shows itself daily in 
behaviour, and also in conduct when you take the 
whole of a life, may co-exist with foibles, with stains, 
with perversities, with ignorance, with shortcomings of 
any and of every kind. But there is one thing which 
is characteristic of it, and that is, its freedom from 
limitation. No one pursuit, end, aim, or occupation 
permanently sullies its perceptions. It may be wicked 
for a time as David, cruel for a time as Caesar, even 
false ; but these are only passing forms of mind ; and 
there is still room for virtue, piety, self-restraint, and 
clemency. Its intelligence is not a mirror obedient to 
private impulses that reflects only that which its will 
commands for the time; but gives candidly some 
reflection of all that passes by. Hence, by God's 
blessing, it will know how to leave off; whereas, on 

Q 



[ 2 4 2 ] 

the contrary, the mind which is hedged in by the 
circumstances and ideas of one passion, or pursuit, 
is painfully limited, be that passion or pursuit what 
it may. 

Observe the calmness of great men, noting by the 
way, that real greatness belongs to no station and no 
set of circumstances. This calmness is the cause of 
their beautiful behaviour. Vanity, injustice, intemper- 
ance, are all smallnesses arising from a blindness to 
proportion in the vain, the unjust, and the intemperate. 
Whereas, no one thing, unless it be the love of God, 
has such a continuous hold on a great mind as to 
seem all in all to it. The great know, unconsciously, 
more of the real beneficent secret of the world : there 
is occasional repose of soul for them. How can such 
men be subdued by money, be enclosed by the ideas 
of a party, or a faction, be so shut up in a profession, 
an art, or a calling, as to see nought else, or to 
believe only in one form of expression for what is 
beautiful and good ? 

Passing by a mountain stream, I once beheld an 
unfortunate trunk of a tree, which, having been shot 
down the side of a hill, and thus sent on, as the 
custom is in those countries, down the stream to find 
its way to the haven, had unfortunately come too near 
a strong eddy, which caught it up and ever whirled it 



[ 243 ] 

back again. How like the general course of man ! I 
thought. Down came the log with apparent vigour 
and intent each time, and it seemed certain that it 
would drive onwards in the course designed for it; 
but each time it swirled round and was sent back 
again. Ever and anon it came with greater force, 
described a wider arc, and surely now, I thought, it 
will shoot down on its way ; but no, it paused for a 
moment, felt the influence of its fatal eddy, and then 
returned with the like force it had come down with. 
I waited and waited, groups of holiday-making people 
passed by me wondering, I daresay, what I stayed 
there to see ; but unmindful of any of us, it went on 
performing its circles. I returned in the evening ; the 
poor log was still there, busy as ever in not going 
onwards \ and I went upon my journey, feeling very 
melancholy for this tree, and thinking there was little 
hope for it. It may even now be at its vain gyrations, 
knowing no rest, and yet making no advance to the 
seas for which it was destined. 

So let it not be with us : caught up by no mean 
eddies which draw us to the side of the stream and 
compel us to revolve in the same narrow circlet of 
passion, of prejudice, of party, of ambition, of desire; 
finding in constancy no limitation, in devotedness of 
pursuit no narrowness of heart, or thought, or creed ; 



[ 244 ] 

choosing as the highway of our career one which 
widens and deepens ever as we move along it ; let us 
float on to that unmeasured ocean of thought and 
endeavour where the truly great in soul (often great 
because humble, for it is the pride of man which 
keeps him to small purposes and prevents his 
knowing when to leave off with earthly things), where 
the truly and the simply great shall find themselves in 
kindred waters of far other depth than those which 
they were first launched out upon. 

After writing down the foregoing thoughts upon the 
art of coming to an end, which had been the subject 
of my morning's ride, I went out upon the lawn to 
refresh myself with the evening air. It was very 
clear: the stars and the moon were in all their 
splendour ; and the shadows of the trees lay quietly 
upon the grass, as if the leaves, for the most part so 
restless, were now sleeping on their stems, like the 
birds upon the branches. 

I had resolved that this reverie, a fitting one to 
conclude with, should be the last of which I would 
give an account. There is something sad about the 
end of anything, whether it be the building of a 
palace, the construction of a great history, like that of 
Gibbon, the finishing of a child's baby-house, or the 
conclusion of some small, unpretending work in 



[ ^45 ] 

literature. The first feelings of an author soon pass 
by. Those hopes and those fears which quite agitate 
the young pretender to fame, are equally dulled by 
failure or success. [Meanwhile, the responsibility of 
writing does not grow less, at least in any thoughtful 
mind. With the little knowledge we have on any 
subject, how we muster audacity to write upon it, I 
hardly know. 

These signs, too, that we use for communicating 
our thoughts, which we call language, what a strange 
debris it is of the old languages — a result of the 
manifold corruptions of childish prattle, of the uncouth 
talk of soldiers sent into conquered provinces, of the 
vain efforts of rude husbandmen to catch an unfamiliar 
tongue. And, if we went back to the old languages, 
with equal knowledge of their antecedents, we should 
probably find that they also were lamentable gather- 
ings from forgotten tongues, huts out of the ruins of 
palaces. 

So much for the vehicle in which we convey our 
thoughts, imperfect enough in themselves. 

Then, if we turn to the people, the manners, the 
customs, and the laws we have to act upon with these 
thoughts, there, too, what a mass of confusion is pre- 
sented to us, collected from all parts of the earth and 
from all periods of history. 



[ 246 ] 

As I thought of this, I seemed to see the various 
races who had occupied this very spot flit by — Briton, 
Roman, Saxon, Norman, each with his laws, manners, 
and customs imprinted on his bearing, the wrecks ot 
mighty empires shown in the very accoutrements of 
each shadowy form as it went by. And this mass 
of strangely-mingled materials is the substance that 
these imperfect thoughts expressed in imperfect lan- 
guage have to act upon. 

And, then, what say these stars with their all- 
eloquent silence, seeming to reduce all our schemes 
into nothings, to make our short-lived perplexities 
ludicrous, ourselves and our ways like a song that is 
not sung? What a cold reply they seem to give to 
all human works and questionings. 

But, said I to myself, such trains of thought may 
easily be pursued too far ; we must not bring in the 
immensities about us and within us to crush our 
endeavours. Here we are ; let stars, or bygone times, 
or the wrecks of nations, or the corruptions of lan- 
guage, say or show what they will. There is some- 
thing also to be done by us : we have our little 
portions of the reef of coral yet to build up. If we 
have not time to become wise, we have time enough 



[ 2 47 ] 

to become resigned. If we have rude and confused 
material to work upon, and uncouth implements to 
work with, less must be required from us ; and, as for 
these stars, the true meaning to be got from them is 
in reality an encouraging one. 

Some men have thought that one star or planet 
befriended them; some, another. This man grew 
joyful when the ascendant star of his nativity came 
into conjunction with Jupiter, favourable to his 
destinies ; and that man grew pale when his planet 
came into opposition with Saturn, noxious to his 
horoscope, threatening the " House of Life." Nor is 
astrology extinct : science only lends it more meaning, 
but not a private one for kings or potentates. These 
stars say something very significant to all of us : and 
each man has the whole hemisphere of them, if he 
will but look up, to counsel and befriend him. In 
the morning time, they come not within ken, when 
they would too much absorb our attention, and hinder 
our necessary business, but in the evening, they 
appear to us, to chasten over-personal thoughts, to 
put down what is exorbitant in earth-bred fancies, 
and to encourage those endeavours and aspirations 
which meet with no full response from any single 
planet, certainly not from the one we are on, but which 
derive their meaning and their end from the vastness 



[ 2 4 8 ] 

and the harmony of the whole of God-directed nature 
and of life. 

So thinking, I was enabled for a moment to see, or 
rather to feel, that the threads of our poor human 
affairs, tangled as they seem to be, might yet be inter- 
woven harmoniously with the great cords of love and 
duty that bind the universe together. And so I 
returned to the house, and said " Good night " cheer- 
fully to the friendly stars, which did not now seem to 
oppress me by their magnitude, or their multitude, or 
their distance. 



INDEX, 



A. 

Academus, groves of, have a competitor, 136. 

Accomplishments aid in getting rid of small anxieties, 182. 

Accuracy spoilt by being carried too far, 234. 

Administrative officer suggested, 99. 

Admiration, insincerity in, to be avoided, 200. 

Advice to a descendant who would retrieve the fortunes of the 

Author's family, 49 ; to men in small authority, 203. 
Affection not generally inspired by the Church of England, 211. 
Affections of the mind, skill in dealing with, to be acquired, 166. 
Agreement amongst men, in thought, impossible, 205. 
Amusement necessary for man, 30-32 ; should be contrived for 

him, 32 ; poverty of England's resources with respect to, 199. 
Anglo-Saxons can afford to cultivate art, 32. 
Annals of the poor, familiar words in, 99. 
Arab song, verse of, applied to writing, 233. 
Art, the pursuit of, often incompatible with fortune, 54. 
Art of coming to an end, largeness of the subject, 234 ; may be 

exercised independently of the affections of the mind, 237 ; 

ignorance of, has limited men's efforts, 239 ; is but the art of 

beginning something new, 240. 
Astrology not extinct, 247. 

Author's thoughts on the future fortunes of his family, 42. 
Author, the first feelings of one soon pass away, 245. 
Authority on great subjects, scarcely any mind so free from its 

influence that it can boldly apprehend the question for itself. 

142. 



[ 2 5° ] 

B. 

Bacon, remark from him on the need of a friend, 49 ; an instance 
of the compatibility of literature with action, 68. 

Behaviour, the beauty and wisdom of knowing when to leave off 
particularly manifested in, 240 ; beauty of, very rare, 241. 

Bereavements, 193. 

Blair, his works preferred to fictions, 233. 

Blame often good, but only as good fiction, 174. 

Books a resource against physical and mental storms, 164. 

Borgias, the cause of new Post-office regulations, 22. 

Breadth of purpose might exist without inane versatility, 239. 

Brutus, how his part might be played in the law, 4. 

Burke, an instance of the compatibility of literature with action, 
68. 

Burleigh, Lord, speech of his to his gown of state, 181. 

C. 

Caesar, an instance that literature is compatible with great actions, 
67 ; his cruelty consistent with greatness of mind, 241. 

Calumny, ordinary source of, 171 ; most men of many trans- 
actions subject to, 171 ; to be looked upon as pure misfortune, 
171 ; way of treating it, 171 ; too much stress should not be 
laid on it, 1 72. 

Camoens, an instance that literature is compatible with action, 
67 ; quotation from, 150. 

Carlyle, Mr, says that a great writer creates a want for himself> 
68. 

Censoriousness the inventor of many sins, 27. 

Cervantes, an instance that literature is compatible with action, 

67. 

Chance delights in travelling, 196. 

Character, diversities of, met with in travel, a delight, 195. 

Charity, taught by error, 1 1 ; requires the sternest labour, 29 ; 
one of the most difficult things, 29 ; not comprised in remedy- 
ing material evils, 30 ; often mixed up with a mash of senti- 
ment and sickly feeling, 85 ; a difficult and perplexed thing, 159. 

Charles V., anecdote of, 205 ; his retirement majestic, 236. 



[ 25i ] 

Christianity partly to blame for the over-rigid views with 
reference to unchastity, 83 ; to correct political economy, 96 ; 
made a stumbling-block to many, 102. 

Christian temper, opportunities for its manifestation afforded to 
all functionaries connected with travelling, 203. 

Church, qualities to be sought for in, 20 ; perfection to be aimed 
at in, 212. 

Churches, advantages of their being open, 213. 

Church, the obstacles to the reform of, 213; evil of unnecessary 
articles of faith in, 214 

Church-going, hindrances to, amongst the poor in England, 100. 

Church of England, the, suffers from opposite attacks, 209 ; its 
foundations need more breadth and solidity, 210 ; too imper- 
sonal, 211 ; deficiency of heartiness in, 212. 

Church questions, opposing facts and arguments in, seldom come 
into each other's presence, 20. 

Chemistry affords a high idea of the importance of proportion, 

237. 

Civilisation ought to render the vicissitudes of. life less extreme, 
83 ; its advance tells less upon women than upon men, 228. 

Climate of England, difficult to live in, 3. 

Colleges an instance of misplaced labour, 7. 

Colonisation, room for improvement in, 208. 

Coleridge, his explanation of the word "world," 102. 

Competition, evils of, considerable, 28 ; in length of sermons, 29. 

Competition in puritanical demonstration, injurious to sincerity, 
29 ; the child of fear, 29. 

Companionship in travelling, dangers of, 191. 

Companions, qualities which would render them a gain, 192 ; 
much to be learned from, in travel, 195. 

Confessor, good functions of, might be fulfilled by many Protes- 
tants, 102. 

Confidence, in making any, you lose the royal privilege of begin- 
ning the discourse on that topic, 133 ; should be put aside in 
bearing misfortune, 165 ; origin of, 165; difficult to lay aside, 
i6 S . 

Conquerors, great, have committed the error of superabundance, 

235- 



[ ^-2 ] 

Constitutional governments have their price, 98. 

Constitution of England, advantages of, 206 ; disadvantages of, 

207. 
Contempt not justifiable in mortals, 104. 
Conventionality, an enemy to the opposers of the " great sin of 

great cities," 104 ; the adoration offered up to worldliness, 104; 

increases the great sin of great cities, 105. 
Conventionalities, small, women more slavish to them than men, 

228. 
Conviction, unlimited power of a spirit resulting from, 145 ; its 

expansive power, 148. 
Counteraction the true strategy in attacking vice, 93. 
Country in winter like a great man in adversity, 12. 
Courier, Paul Louis, an instance that literature is compatible with 

action, 67, 
Critical faculty, error in exercising it too much, 235. 
Criticism, compared to the copies of Leonardo da Vinci's fresco 

of the Last Supper, 19 ; object in listening to it, 219. 
Cultivation, a potent remedy for the "great sin of great cities," 

92 ; metaphor on, 226. 
Cultivation, general, the want of, cripples individual excellence, 

3 ; the want of, prevents the enjoyment of scientific discovery, 8. 
Cultivation, continuous, should be the object for statesmen and 

all governing people, 94 ; the power of, deficient in most men, 

240. 
Customs, evil, spread rapidly, 198 ; good, make way slowly, 198. 
Cyrus, his mode of keeping the Lydians tame, 32. 

D. 

David, his wickedness consistent with greatness of mind, 241. 
Day, a, an epitome of a life, 188. 

Dead level in men's character, notion of, a mistake, 223. 
Descartes, an instance that literature is compatible with action, 67. 
Description of a foreign scene from a bridge, 154. 
Despair the slave-driver to many crimes, 82. 
Despotism, the sternest, often found in social life, 37. 
Differences, great, amongst thoughtful men about great subjects 
should not be stifled, 209. 



[ *53 ] 

Difficulties, intellectual and spiritual, great hearing of, suggested, 

20. 

Diocletian, his retirement majestic, 236. 

Diplomatic services peculiarly fit to be performed by literary 
men, 69. 

Disasters become possessions, 168. 

Disciples do not aid the discovery of truth, 188. 

Disproportion a main cause of the error of superabundance, 239. 

Dissatisfaction with their own work, advice to those who suffer 
from, 181. 

Division of labour partly a cause of ignorance, 8. 

Divorce, law of, may require modification, 141. 

Domestic annoyances, mischief and vexations caused by, 38. 

Domestic servants particularly liable to the slavery of conven- 
tionality, 105; temptations of, 105 ; improvements in the man- 
agement of, suggested, 105. 

Doubts on the greatest matters the result of the falsifications of 
our predecessors, 17. 

Duelling disarmed by public opinion, 146. 

Dutch, the, their "forget book," used for the mishaps of a 
journey, 189. 

Duties often very dubious, 159. 

Dwellings, improvement of, one means of enabling the wages of 
the poor to go further, 96. 



Education, a potent remedy for the "great sin of great cities," 92; 

must continue through life, 156; larger views of, required, 156; 

suffers from religious differences, 210; enabling powers of, 221. 
Ellesmere's story, 113. 

Emerson, quotation from his chapter on Beauty of Nature, 201. 
Emigration not the only remedy for poverty, 95. 
End of anything, the, sadness of, 244. 
England, foreign notions of, 117 ; Constitution of, its advantages, 

206 ; its disadvantages, 207. 
English people, their genius severe, 32 ; would not be cramped 

by judicious regulations, 60 ; description of, 189. 



[ 2 54 ] 

Errors made into sins by miscalling them, 28. 
Evil carries with it its teachings, 91. 
Evils, their true proportions often not understood, 166. 
Experience gained by suffering, 184; of life, an aid in bearing 
injustice, 178. 

F. 

Fable of a choice being given to men on their entrance into 

life, 54. 
Family vanity exasperates rigid virtue, 86. 
Father, a thoroughly judicious, one of the rarest creatures, 90. 
Felicity a hostage to Fortune, 183. 
Fiction has filled women's heads with untrue views of human life, 

93 ; may be better than nothing for the mind, 94. 
Finance, room for improvement in, 208. 

Flowers, their names show that poets lived in the country, 1 7. 
Folly will find a place even at the side of princes, 60. 
Foresight crushes all but men of great resolution, 52. 
Freedom, clamour for, a chief obstacle to its possession, 5 ; from 

restraint in travelling, 195. 
Freemasonry among children, 40. 
Friend, the advantage of one, 175. 
Friends not of a prolific nature, 49. 

G. 

Gaiety not necessarily an element of wickedness, 24. 

Gardens, the love of, the last refuge of art in the minds of 

Englishmen, 44. 
Garrick, speech of Johnson to him, 183. 

Generosity of mean people does not deceive the bystander, 145. 
Germans, simplicity of, 1 16. 
Goethe feared to enter upon biblical criticism, 18; says that 

no creature is happy, or even free, except in the circuit of 

law, 89 ; remark by him on toleration, 230. 
Gospel, the, prevents the triumph of despair, 82. 
Government unfit for women, 140 ; many improvements in, 

required, 208 ; sound reform in, difficult, 208. 



[ *55 ] 

Grand thoughts adverse to any abuse of the passions, 92. 

Great men, their abilities counteracted by a want of proportion, 
239 ; cause of their calmness, 242 ; andjrepose of soul. 242 ; 
their freedom from limitation, 242. 

Great mind, no one thing, unless it be the love of God, seems all 
in all to it, 242. 

Great sin of great cities, the, pointed out, 78 ; mournfulness of, 
79 ; an accurate concentration of the evils of society, 79 ; 
nature of, 80 ; degrades the race, 80 ; feelings of the people 
concerned in it, 81 ; main cause of, 83 ; over-rigid views in 

I reference to unchastity a cause of, S^ ; charity in the virtuous 
recommended towards, 84 ; want of obedience to Christian pre- 

» cepts in reference to, 85 ; want of charity towards, makes error 
into crime, 85 ; family pride prevents charity in, 86 ; ill- 
management of parents a cause of, 88 ; uncleanliness of men 
a cause of, in the lower classes, 90 ; cause of, applying to men, 
90 ; the want of other thoughts one source of, 92 ; education 
and cultivation potent remedies for, 92 ; remedies for, 95 ; con- 
ventionality aids to increase it, 103 ; domestic servants frequent 
victims to, 105 ; improvement in men to be hoped for as a 
remedy, 107 ; love a preventative of, 107. 

Greatness of mind may co-exist with shortcomings of every kind, 
241 ; its characteristic, 241 ; belongs to no station, 241. 

Greatness of thought or nature not always connected with 
resounding deeds, 223. 

Greeks, perhaps prevented from becoming dominant by a 
cultivation of many arts, 32. 

Grotius, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 6S. 

H. 

Happiness, personal, small amount of, needed, 184. 
Heart, the human, tyranny of, how proved, 198. 
Hindrances to men's best endeavours often slight, 220. 
History of the world, the, compared to the prints of Leonardo 

da Vinci's fresco of the Last Supper, 19. 
Home should be made very happy to children, 89. 



[ 2 5 6 ] 

Horse exercise, advantages of, 231. 

House of Commons, improvement in, suggested, 207. 

House of Lords, how to supply to it an element of popular 

influence, 207. 
Human affairs almost all tedious, 232 ; threads of, might be 

interwoven with the cords that bind the universe together, 248. 
Human beings, their power to maintain their structure unimpaired 

in a hostile element shown in the law, 7. 
Human life, mischief of unsound representations of, 93. 
Humanity, a low view of, probably the greatest barrier to the 

highest knowledge, 91. 
Humility, taught by error, 11, 16; promotes cheerfulness, 17 ; in 

dealing with misfortunes, 169. 
Humour the deepest part of some men's nature, 186. 
Hurry, wise men do not, without good reason, 200. 
Hypocrisy the homage which vice pays to virtue, 103. 
Hypocrites pronounced the choice society of the world, St,. 

I. 

Ignorance partly proceeds from division of labour, 8 ; a hindrance 
to Church reform, 213. 

Imagination, want of, in most men confines them to the just 
appreciation of those natures which are like their own, 173. 

Indulgence requires no theory to support it, 91. 

Infelicities belong to the state below, 184. 

Injudicious dress, great suffering caused by, 38. 

Injurious comment on people's conduct, considerations which 
should prevent it, or console the sufferers, 172. 

Injustice a very different thing from misfortune, and incommen- 
surable with it, 174 ; arises from blindness to proportion, 242. 

Insincerity about religion, its continuance prevents much good, 
210. 

Intemperance arises from blindness to proportion, 242. 

Intellectual energies of cultivated men want directing to the great 
questions, 214. 

Intelligent men liberal in assigning the limits of power, 63. 

Intelligent public opinion will prevent despotism in a minister, 63. 



[ 2 3 7 ] 

Intercommunication between rich and poor should be facili- 
tated, 99. 

Investigation into prices will prevent people from running madly 
after cheapness, 95. 

Irrationality of mankind to be prepared for in all undertakings, 
217. 

J. 

James the First of Scotland, an instance of the compatibility of 
literature with action, 68. 

Johnson, Dr. one of his highest delights, 135 ; speech of his to 
Garrick, 183. 

Journey, a, how dissimilar to a life, 188. 

Judas Iscariot might have done better than to hang himself, Sj. 

Justice not to be expected in this world, 1 79 ; idea of its personi- 
fication, 179. 

K. 

Kindness not an encourager of the "great sin of great cities," Sj. 
Knowledge its doubts a hindrance to vigorous statement, 23 ; of 

vice not knowledge of the world, 91 ; of the world, how gained, 

91 ; the means and the end in travelling, 190. 



Labour of finish spoilt by being carried too far, 234. 
Lacedaemonians acknowledged the duties of a father, 160. 
Language, change of, in travelling, a delight, 196; imperfections 

of, 245. 
Law, loss in, 4 ; improvement in, to be hoped for from general 

improvement of the people, 4; satire falls short when aimed at 

its practices, 6; maintained as a mystery by its adjuncts, 7; 

many admirable men to be found in all grades of, 7 ; compared 

to a fungus, 43. 
Laws of supply and demand overruled by higher influences, 144. 
Lawyers, time spent at their offices the saddest portion of man's 

existence, 6 ; not answerable for all the evils attributed to 

R 



[ 2 5 S ] 

their proceedings, 6 ; work of, compared with that of states- 
men, 167. 
Lengthiness fatal to a good style, 234. 
Leonardo da Vinci, thoughts suggested by his fresco of The Last 

Supper, 19. 
Life, objects of, as regards this world, 24 ; the bustle of, keeps 

sadness at the bottom of the heart, 46. 
Limitation, freedom from, a characteristic of greatness of minds, 

241. 
Literary men more of cosmopolites than other men, 69 ; would 

be improved by real business, 69 ; plan for rewarding them 

proposed, 70. 
Literary work requires many of the qualifications of a man of 

business, 66. 
Literature affords a choice of men to a statesman, 66. 
Log caught by an eddy, man's course compared to one, 242. 
Logic halts sometimes when applied to charity, 84. 
Loneliness of a thoughtful man, 14. 
Lorenzo de' Medici, an instance of the compatibility of literature 

with action, 68. 
Love cannot be schooled much, 93 ; implies infinite respect, 107 ; 

power of, 107 ; the memory of, must prevent " the great sin 

of great cities," 108 ; of God need not withdraw us from our 

fellow-men, 30. 
Luther, quotation from, on tribulation, 82 ; saying of his to his 

wife, 177. 

M. 

Machiavelli, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 68. 

Malignities, why fostered in small towns and villages, 31. 

Man, his faculties frequently appear inadequate to his situation, 
9 ; generally his own worst antagonist, 16; becomes deformed 
by surrendering himself to any one pursuit, 69; an isolated 
being, 225 ; one rarely found who holds his art, accomplish- 
ment, function, or business in an easy disengaged way, 239 ; 
one whose mind is open to other influences than those which 



[ *59 ] 

surround him., difficult to find, 240 ; his course like a log 
caught by an eddy, 242. 

Marlborough, his victories, if needless, contemptible, 235. 

Marriage, unhappiness in, does not justify " the great sin of great 

* cities," 141 ; our present notions of, probably imperfect, 142. 

Medical men, opportunities of, for communication with the poor? 
102. 

Men require amusement as much as children, 40 ; occasionally 
deceived by theories about equality, 90; ill prepared for social 
life, 191 ; how to fit them for social life, 192 ; will be more 
easy to deal with as they become greater, 221 ; their pursuits 
pervaded by the error of not knowing when to leave off, 236 ; 
small number of, who have done anything great for mankind, 
238 ; compared to mules carrying burdens in mountainous 
countries, 240. 

Men, the greatest, compared to fig-trees in England, 188. 

Men, great, imaginative, never utterly enslaved by their func- 
tions, 195. 

Men of genius, their comparative youthfulness results from their 
fine sense of proportion, 237. 

Men of the world, self-sufficiency of, 143 ; their probable objec- 
tion to the proposed remedies for "the great sin of great 
cities," 144; reply to their objection, 144. 

Mendoza, an instance that literature is compatible with action, 67. 

Mental preparation for travelling essential, 190. 

Metaphor, probably the introducer of frightful errors, 18 ; essen- 
tial in narration, 18. 

Metastasio, passage from, 185. 

Milton, an instance of the compatibility of literature with action, 
68 ; his " Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce," arguments con- 
tained therein not easily answered, 142. 

Mind, repose of, gained by travel, 193. 

Minister of education, duties which might devolve on one, 99. 

Ministers of religion, their temptations to err, 101. 

Mirabeau, men like him will have an aversion to the " great sin 
of great cities," 108. 

Miseries of private life require to be kept down by wise and good 
thoughts, 37. 



[ 260 ] 

Misfortune often makes men ungenerous, 47. 

Misfortunes exercise all the moods and faculties of a man, 167 ; 
wise way of dealing with them, 168 ; mean, often most difficult 
to bear, 179. 

Misplaced labour, quantity of, 3 ; observable in schools, colleges,* 
and parliaments, 7. 

Modern cultivation does not necessarily tend to subdue great- 
ness, 224. 

Monomaniacs, too little account taken of them, 171. 

Moral writings, the great triumph of, 55. 

Murillo, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred genius, 199. 



N. 

Napoleon, his invasion of Russia good opportunity for working 
out his errors, 9 ; an instance that literature is compatible with 
great actions, 67 ; probable effect of his worldly wisdom in not 
remembering too much his Russian campaign, 168. 

Nations, benefits arising from intercommunication of, 196; 
differences between, small when compared with their resem- 
blances, 197. 

Native land, a serious place to every man, 194. 

Nature, considerable address required to cope with her, 8 ; good- 
ness of, in permitting error, 16 ; habitual appreciation of, to be 
cultivated, 201. 

Neatness spoilt by being carried too far, 234. 

Neglect, aids in bearing it, 175. 

Newton, change of study his recreation, 181. 



O. 

Obloquy, consolation in bearing it, 1 70. 

Obstruction to be encountered by men in power, 61. 

Ob trusiveness of thoughts, 13. 

Officers of State ought to prevent much private expense in law, 5. 

Opinion, the general body of, very fluent, 1 70. 

Originality, diseased desire for, 225. 



[ *6i ] 



Parents, ill management of, a common cause of " the great sin of 
great cities," 88. 

Parliaments an instance of misplaced labour, 7. 

Paternal duties, imperative, 160; difficult to fulfil, 161 ; forget- 
fulness of, encourages immorality, 161. 

Peace brings with it a sensation of power, 74. 

Pedagogues, most men become such, 239. 

Peel, Sir Robert, his death inopportune, 205 ; his good qualities, 
205 ; great loss in him, 208 ; sketch of his character, 216. 

Peerages for life desirable, 207. 

Pensions should generally be given to the persons who could have 
done the things for which such rewards are given, but who 
have not done them, 70. 

People, modern, a mass of confusion, 245. 

Pine wood, description of one, 74. 

Pharisees pronounced the choice society of the world, 83. 

Philosophy, sobriety of mind from, 182. 

Physical works, waste and obstruction in, 8. 

Plato, his harsh opinion of poets accounted for, 18. 

Plausibility makes injustice hard to unravel, 119. 

Pleasure, Spanish verses on, 13 ; past, Sydney Smith's opinion of, 
14 ; falls into no plan, 75. 

Politics, greater things may be done out'ofthemthaninthem, 15. 

Poor, the limited education of, a mistake, 156; room for im- 
provement in dealings with, 211. 

Pope Alexander the Sixth, to blame for the post-office regula- 
tions, 23. 

Portrait painting compared to the copies of Leonardo da Vinci's 
fresco of The Last Supper, 19. 

Poverty, the removal of, a remedy for " the great sin of great 
cities," 95 ; two kinds of, 95 ; women endure an undue pro- 
portion of it, 139. 

Power in rising to it, men fail to learn how to use it, 97. 

Practical wisdom in dealing with vexations, 169. 

Preachers, topics of, too limited, 212. 



[ 262 ] 

Pride chastises with heavier hand than Penitence, 180; of man 
prevents his knowing when to leave off, 244. 

Priests should facilitate the intercommunication between rich and 
poor, 99. 

Private opinions on important subjects, by whom to be indulged 
in, 53- 

Property, facilities should be afforded for the poor to become 
owners of, 97. 

Proportion, want of, makes men one-sided, 237 ; comparative 
youthfulness of men of genius results from their fine sense of, 
237 ; its importance shown in chemistry, 237 ; want of, ac- 
counts for the rarity of beautiful behaviour, 241. 

Protestantism, disadvantage of its closed churches, 213, 

Proverbs seldom true except for the occasion on which they are 
used, 55. 

Prudence a substantial virtue here, 3. 

Public meeting, noise made by a man there proportioned to his 
ignorance of the subject, 23. 

Public notaries suggested, 5. 

Public opinion, triumph of, over duelling, 146. 

Punctiliousness spoilt by being carried too far, 234. 

Puritan, absurd, the correlative of a wicked Pope, 23. 

Puritanism, thoughts on, 26 ; good as an abnegation of self, 26 ; 
when an evil, 27. 

q. 

Quaker, conversation of one, 25. 

R. 

Railway legislation required earlier Government interference, 61. 
Raphael, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred genius, 

199. 
Rational pleasures difficult to define, 24. 
Reason, the hold of the Church on, considered, 210. 
Reasoning powers require development in women, 103. 
Recollection one of the main delights of a journey, 189. 
Reflection on past ambitions, sadness of, 15. 



[ 263 ] 

Reform, slow progress of, 148. 

Reformers, reproach made against, 146 ; objects of, 147. 

Regret, almost infinite, at having missed the one desired happi- 
ness, 183. 

Remedies, political, often come too late, 207. 

Remorse a main obstacle to outward improvement, 81. 

Relations of life, the great, difficult of performance, 88 

Religion, comfort of mind from, 182 ; room for improvement 
in the proceedings of the State with respect to, 208 ; probable 
mischief produced by degrading views of, 210; thoughts on? 
should not be suppressed, 210. 

Religious spirit, deficiency of, not concealed by outward deeds, 

145. 

Repining person, speech made to one, 54. 

Representation and transfer of property, improvement in, a 

means of enabling the wages of the poor to go further, 96. 
Respectability, undue care for, amongst men, 224. 
Responsibility of writing does not grow less, 245. 
Retired allowances for servants suggested, 106. 
Retrospect not a very safe or wise thing, 41 ; cannot be avoided, 

41 ; how the process of, differs from that pursued by Alnaschar, 

in the Arabian Nights , 41 
Retrospection, excessive, to be avoided, 85. 
Reveries, various forms of, 57. 
Ridicule, fear of, amongst young men, 224. 
Rochefoucauld probably a dupe to impulses and affection, 47. 
Roman Catholics, some things might be adopted from them in 

forming a Church, 212. 
Roman Emperors, the probably maligned, 1 70. 
Rouen, scene in the Cathedral there, 212. 
Russian Campaign, a, experienced by most men, 9. 

S. 

Sanitary measures, delay in, 62. 

Sanatory reform gives additional power and freedom to man- 
kind, 220. 
Satire becomes narrative when aimed at the Law, 6. 



[ 264 J 

Savings, the investment of, a question of the highest import- 
ance, 97. 

Scandal a resource against dulness, 31. 

Schools an instance of misplaced labour, 7. 

Schoolmasters would form a good means of communication with 
the poor, 102. 

Schoolmistresses would form a good means of communication 
with the poor, 102. 

Scriptures, the, probable misrepresentations of, 19. 

Seduction a poor transaction, 158. 

Self-denial, when to be admired, 26. 

Self-inflicted suffering which cannot be turned to account for 
others, a loss, 26. 

Self-restraint the great tutor, 91. 

Sermons, competition in length of, 29 ; those we preach for our- 
selves always interesting, 114; too many preached, 212. 

Shaftesbury, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 68. 

Shelley, lines of his applied to love, 108. 

Shrewd writers often the most easy to impose upon, 47. 

Sidney, an instance that literature is compatible with action, 67. 

Silence, the great fellow- workman, 218. 

Sins, easy to manufacture, 27. 

Small anxieties hard to bear, 179 ; art in managing them, 181 ; 
hard to dismiss, 181. 

Small errors often alter the course of a man's life, 9. 

Smith, Sydney, his opinion of past pleasure, 14. 

Smoke, suppression of, 148. 

Social abuses, erroneous views of, 81. 

Social disabilities, the removal of, would give room for freedom 
of thought and action, 221. 

Social evils compared to old trees, 62 ; importance of unanimity 
with respect to, 146. 

Social life, returns for causes of suffering in, suggested, 37 ; 
men ill prepared for, 192 ; how to fit man for, 192. 

Social pleasures not necessarily wrong, 25 ; afford scope for 
charity, 30. 

Social troubles equal to national ones, 38. 



[ 26 S ] 

Socialism put forward to fill the void of government, 98. 

Socrates, his philosophy cannot be imitated here in England, 3. 

Somers, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 68. 

Spanish colonists in America, the first, beg that lawyers may 
not go out to their colony, 6. 

Spanish poetry, quotation from, on pleasure, 13. 

Spanish proverbs, 84. 

Stars, the, thoughts suggested by their aspect, 193 ; speak signi- 
ficantly to all, 247. 

Statesmanship, ' one of its great arts, 33 ; always appears to 
come too late, 59. 

Statesmen, to be looked up to as protectors from lawyers, 5 ; 
two different things demanded from, 61 ; their individual 
temperament affects government, 62 ; temperament desirable 
for, 62 ; principles to be inculcated in, 63 ; work of, compared 
with that of a lawyer, 167. 

St John, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 68. 

Success depends upon the temperament of a man, 52 ; in life, 
man's faculties inadequate to, 11. 

Sudden distress and destitution amongst young women, how to 
be averted, 99. 

Sun, the, worshipped by few idolaters, 186 ; his simple form pro- 
voked no desire to worship, 187 ; all nature bending slightly 
forwards in a supplicating attitude to him, might be visible to 
finer senses, 187. 

Superabundance, error of, in the vices of mankind a field for it, 

235. 
Swift, his imaginings not more absurd than transactions in the 

law, 6. 
Sylla, his retirement majestic, 236. 
Systems save the trouble of thinking, 65. 

T. 

Teaching difficult from want of distinct convictions, 18. 
Temperament, the best for success described, 52. 



[ 266 ] 

Temple, Sir William, an instance of the compatibility of litera- 
ture with action, 68. 

Theology, science of, would not have existed if all clergymen 
had been Christians, 151. 

Thoughts at the mercy of accident, 151 ; reason for maintaining 
them long on the mind, 231. 

Time, everything a function of, 238 ; needful demands on, 238. 

Timidity of mind renders women the victims of conventionality, 
103. 

Tiresomeness belongs not to virtue alone, 232. 

Titian, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred genius, 199. 

Tragedy, different phases of, 150. 

Translation compared to the copies of Leonardo da Vinci's fresco 
of The Last Supper, 19. 

Traveller, anecdote of one, 200. 

Travellers, hints to, on their behaviour, 204. 

Travelling in a carriage, delights of, 135 ; must improve all 
men, 154; ancient mode of, compared with modern, 190; 
advantages of, 193-196 ; enjoyments of, 196. 

Truth sustains great loss in Church questions, 20 ; carries in its 
hand all earthly and all heavenly consolations, 166. 

Tyranny of the weak, a fertile subject, 33 ; by whom exercised, 
34 ; why endured, 34 ; the generous great sufferers from, 34 ; 
compared to an evil government, 34; great in quiet times, 
34 ; analysis of, 34; its cessation suggested, 35 ; a common 
form of it, 35 ; reason for putting a limit to it, 35. 

U. 

Uncharitable speeches, a fear of, the incentive to many courses 

of evil, 86. 
Uncultivated people seldom just or tolerant, 137. 
Unhappiness, regret at having missed the one desired happiness 

a common form of, 183 ; medicaments for this form of, 183. 



Vanity arises from blindness to proportion, 148. 
Variety found in travelling diverts the mind, 193. 



[ ^6 7 ] 

Vice, its usual victims, 92. 

Vices, some of the most dangerous flourish most in solitude, 25 ; 

of mankind, a field for the error of superabundance. 235. 
Violence always loss, 14. 
Virgil, quotation from, 229. 
Virtuous, the charity recommended to them, 84. 
Visual image, which should change according to the want of 

truth in the comments upon the person seen, imagined, 174. 



W. 

Wages of poor, improvement in dwellings a means of making 
them go further, 96; improvement in the representation 
and transfer of property a means of enabling them to go 
further, 96. 

Wisdom an aid in bearing injustice, 178. 

Women brought up here to be incompetent to the management 
of affairs, 6 ; their fondness for merit a cause of their frailty, 
90 ; rarely deceived by theories about equality, 90 ; immense 
importance of a better education to them, 103 ; love personal 
talk, 123 ; do not always understand each other, 131 ; some 
of the highest natures amongst them may be found in the 
lowest ranks, 136; have to endure an undue proportion of 
poverty, 139 ; a wrong appreciation of their powers circum- 
scribe their means of employment, 139 ; generally deficient in 
method, 140 ; want accuracy, 140 ; new sources of employ- 
ment might be opened to them, 140 ; government not fit for 
them, 140 ; more slavish to small conventionalities than men, 
228. 

World, the, its advancement depends upon the use of small 
balances of advantage over disadvantage, 8 ; no one discovery 
resuscitates it, 9 ; its want of ingenuity and arrangement in 
not providing employment for its unemployed, 140 ; always 
correcting its opinions, 170. 

World, we are in the thick of one of misunderstanding, haste, 
blindness, passion, indolence, and private interest, 178. 

Workwomen, small wages of, 96. 

Would-be teachers, suggestions to, 21. 



L ■ 268 j 

Writer, a, often requires less to make things logically clear to 
men, than to put them into the mood he wishes to have them 
in, no. 



Youth, beauty of, 109 ; modern, cause of their shyness and cold- 
ness, 228. 
Young talent not made just use of, 225. 




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